


Driftmark

by allineedistwentygoodmen (sirtwentyofhousegoodmen)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alive Starks (ASoIaF), BAMF Lucerys Velaryon, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Dragons, F/M, Gen, Good Viserys Targaryen, House Targaryen, House Velaryon, Jon Snow is a Sand, Political Alliances, Rhaemond is just here for the money and the explosions, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Targaryen Restoration, Targaryens and Velaryons back together baybee, Viserys Targaryen Lives, Viserys Targaryen Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirtwentyofhousegoodmen/pseuds/allineedistwentygoodmen
Summary: House Velaryon and House Targaryen once shared a very close relationship. After the Dance of the Dragons, however, as the Velaryon's wealth and influence waned, they grew apart. What happens when the Lord of Driftmark sees an opportunity to gain back his House's favor and power among the Targaryens in the exiled prince and princess?Or, Oberyn Martell makes it to Dragonstone before Stannis Baratheon and spirits away the Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys to Driftmark, seat of House Velaryon, where they are taken in by their father's former Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon, meant to be kept safe and hidden until it is time to reveal themselves, fulfill betrothals, and take back the seven kingdoms.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen & Viserys Targaryen & Lucerys Velaryon (Lord of the Tides) & Monford Velaryon, Eddard Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Jaime Lannister & Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Lucerys Velaryon (Lord of the Tides)/Original Female Character(s), Rhaenys Targaryen/Monford Velaryon, Viserys Targaryen/Arianne Martell, Willas Tyrell/Original Female Character
Comments: 203
Kudos: 197





	1. Prologue: Oberyn I

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a rewrite of a fic by the same name that I wrote a few months back but ended up deleting because I wrote it too quickly and made some bad calls. Now, I've had time to think things through a bit, and I can safely say it's much better than before. Hope you all enjoy!

_He was a scion of House Velaryon: a family of old and storied Valyrian heritage who had come to Westeros before the Targaryens, as the histories agree, and who often provided the bulk of the royal fleet._

_-Writings of Maester Yandel_

* * *

Driftmark was as gloomy as it was the last time he’d visited, Oberyn thought to himself. As the castle began to come into view, he saw a hint of the previous power the Velaryons held in how large and intimidating it looked at first sight, but as he approached, he could see the cracks in the stone, the damp wooden doors, and the miserable soldiers that looked more fit to be ironborn than bannermen of one of the last great Valyrian houses. _Driftmark,_ he thought wryly, _More like Driftwood._

“Are you sure they can be trusted?” asked Ser Willem, as suspicious as always. Funnily enough, the man reminded him of a saner version of Aerys, as he saw traitors everywhere, but he didn’t get aroused every time he lit a candle.

Oberyn smirked humorlessly. “Lucerys is many things, but a Baratheon supporter is not one of them.”

That did little to stop Ser Willem’s incessant scowling, but he dropped the matter. 

They got off the ship and began walking towards the entrance of the great hall, the little Prince still clinging to his sister as if she would float away if he loosened his grip. Oberyn pitied the lad, to lose both parents and his brother, even if one of those parents and said brother were mad fools, at such a young age was no easy thing. At least Viserys had his sister—Rhaenys, on the other hand, was completely alone now. The poor girl looked as if she’d seen the stranger himself when she arrived at Sunspear, and her white knight had looked no better, his dirty armor and matted golden hair aside, there was a haunted quality to his green eyes that made him look a hundred years old rather than ten-and-seven, however much he attempted to hide it beneath a veneer of sarcasm.

Elia and his nephew butchered by Lannisters, and his niece saved by one. The Gods did love their japes. 

As they entered the castle, they were greeted by Lord Velaryon’s son and heir Monford, a handsome boy of ten-and-four with the Velaryon coloring—silver hair and sea-green eyes—looking every inch the lord he would one day become. 

“Prince Oberyn,” he greeted.

“Lord Monford.”

As Oberyn’s young traveling companions came through the door, Monford’s eyes widened, and he looked back to Oberyn before clearing his throat and speaking. “This is him, then? Truly?” 

“Aye,” Oberyn replied.

“And the babe?” He leaned over to get a better look, eyes growing even wider when he saw the tuft of silver hair atop her head.

“His sister, the Princess Daenerys.”

“Oh,” The lad cleared his throat nervously. “I wasn’t aware that he had a sister…alright then.” Monford, recovering from his shock, shook his head and turned to a servant, whispering some order before turning back. 

“Well then, we mustn’t tarry, my father is expecting you in his solar.”

Oberyn nodded silently, waving his hands to the young Prince Viserys, urging him to follow, which the boy did only after a reassuring smile from Ser Willem. 

They followed young Monford through the damp, winding halls of Driftmark. Observing everything as he walked, it was plain to see that the Velaryons were the descendants of the dragonlords. Driftmark, like Dragonstone, was built from black Valyrian stone and had Valyrian glyphs and dragon motifs carved into its cavernous halls. One could believe themselves in Dragonstone were it not for the occasional seahorse banner hung from the walls. 

After two minutes of walking around the miserable halls of the castle, they reached the solar of Lord Velaryon. The doors opened and revealed Lucerys Velaryon, a handsome man of five-and-thirty with the same silver hair and sea-green eyes as his son. He silently waved them in before turning to his guards and speaking, “Leave us.”

The guards obeyed and left the solar, closing the door behind them. Lucerys got up and walked over to Prince Viserys, kneeling before him, a small smile on his face.

“Hello, my Prince, do you remember me?” he asked softly.

“Lord Velaryon,” the boy looked both shocked and immensely relieved.

“Yes, my Prince, I am. I was on your father’s small council, as you know. Rest assured, you are safe with me. The Usurper has no power here.”

Viserys looked ready to drop to the floor in relief, before remembering his baby sister in his arms.

“And who’s this?” Lucerys asked, though, underneath the sweetness, there was a silent _‘What the fuck?’_ aimed at Oberyn.

“My sister,” Viserys replied.

“Ah,” he said, his eyes widening in shock. “She’s lovely. Say, I’m sure you, the Princess, and Ser Willem would like to rest, I’ll have my son Monford show you to your rooms. How does that sound, my prince?”

Viserys looked at him warily, before giving him the smallest of nods, and following Monford and Willem out of the solar. 

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Lucerys turned to Oberyn, “What in the seven hells?! A sister?!”

Oberyn, sensing a headache-inducing rant from his accomplice, held his hands out and said, “I had no idea Rhaella was with child.”

Lucerys slightly deflated, though he began pacing around the room madly, muttering to himself for a few minutes before turning back to Oberyn. 

“This makes things immensely more complicated.”

“I agree.”

The cheeky remark earned him a sharp glare from Lucerys, though he deflated, walked back over to his desk, and sat down.

“And the Princess Rhaenys? You mentioned her in the letter, though I dare not have much hope.”

“She is safe at Sunspear.”

Lucerys breathed out a sigh. “Thank the gods. Though, I have to ask, how is she at Sunspear and not wrapped up in a Lannister cloak?”

Oberyn tensed visibly at the reminder of what Clegane and Lorch did to his sister and nephew, but decided to let it go and simply replied, “She was spirited away by Jaime Lannister.”

Lucerys’s turquoise eyes looked fit to bulge out of his head at this news, before he let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Gods, what I would’ve given to be a fly on the wall in Tywin’s solar when he heard.”

Oberyn shook his head. “He didn’t. Rhaenys, to the rest of the kingdoms, is dead. The spider switched her out with a crofter’s daughter who had the same look. Jaime Lannister, as far as Tywin is concerned, has fled the country to escape the King’s Justice.” 

“But, if Varys switched out Princess Rhaenys, why couldn’t he do the same for Prince Aegon?”

“He wasn’t meant to. He only offered safety for Rhaenys, claiming that switching out the both of them would be much more difficult to do on such short notice. Besides, I don’t think even he would have anticipated such butchery. He most likely thought that the honorable Lords Arryn, Stark, and Baratheon wouldn’t harm an innocent babe and its mother, and switched Rhaenys out just to pacify Elia for the time being, but alas, Lord Tywin made it to the capital first,” Oberyn practically spat out the last sentence.

Lucerys nodded in understanding. “What will you do with her?” 

Oberyn absent-mindedly checked his nails for dirt. “My dearest friend, the Lady Ashara Dayne, fell pregnant after the tourney at Harrenhal, though the babe was sadly lost. However, only the both of us along with two loyal servants know this. Rhaenys is to be passed off as that babe, and I am to claim her as mine and wed Ashara as soon as I return to Sunspear to legitimize her.” He smirked. “My brother has given her the name of Deria.” 

The name coaxed a knowing smirk out of Lord Velaryon. “The Princess who brought Meraxes’s skull to the capital. Let it not be said that Prince Doran does not have a sense of humor.”

Oberyn gave him a small smile, before clearing his throat, “Yes, well, though I am just as happy as you at my niece’s continued existence, what are you going to do with our new Princess?” 

At the reminder of their chubby, cooing dilemma, Lucerys sobered as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water on his head. “Yes, that. Well, I do have one idea, though I fear my wife will not be too happy with it.”

“Oh?”

“Lysandra gave birth a few days ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“She was stillborn.”

Oberyn gave the man a sympathetic frown, before asking, “You have my condolences, but what does this have to do with the Princess?”

“Not many except the maester, my eldest son, my wife, and I know that the girl did not live.”

At this, Oberyn leaned forward in his chair, curiosity peaked, “You mean to pass her off as your own?”

“Until she comes of an age and we are ready, yes. What is the girl’s name?”

“Daenerys.”

Lucerys shook his head, “No, that won’t do. It’s a Targaryen name.” He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a carved wooden seahorse on his desk before adding, “Daenaera. It’s close enough, and it’s a proper Velaryon name.” 

“And what of the Prince Viserys? Forgive me, my lord, but I do not think many will believe he popped out of your wife’s womb already past eight namedays.”

Lucerys glared at him, and opened his mouth to rebuke him before Oberyn added “Peace, my lord. I was only jesting.”

Lucerys still glared at him, though he continued, “No, we won’t be able to pass him off as my wife’s, though we may pass him off as mine.”

“He will be your bastard, then? To be raised here? Barely a stone’s throw from King’s Landing?” Oberyn grew more skeptical with each sentence he spoke. 

Lucerys answered silkily, seeming completely undeterred. “Yes. Better that he grow up a bastard here in Westeros than as some vagrant gallivanting across the free cities from one magister’s house to the next. As for your worries, the fact that it’s a stone’s throw away from King’s Landing is precisely what makes the plan so ingenious. The usurper and his lackeys will never expect the biggest threat to their rule to be right under their noses. As it is, I’ve already made arrangements so that our scheme may never be questioned.”

Oberyn leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “What kind of arrangements?”

“Let’s just say that there is one _very happy_ Lyseni pillow boy I have bought around Viserys’s age now under the hospitality of the Archon of Tyrosh acting as the exiled prince.”

The prince sat there with his mouth agape for a few moments, before letting out a loud laugh. “Gods, you really are as clever as my brother says you are.” 

Lucerys smirked. “I did not survive Aerys without suspicion for twenty years being simple.” 

“I can see that,” He nodded at him approvingly. “However, we still have quite a few problems needing to be solved. For one, there is the matter of Aerys’s remaining Kingsguard.”

When the two white knights turned up at Sunspear mere days after Rhaenys and her Lannister savior, there was nothing Oberyn, though convinced otherwise by Ashara and Doran, wanted nothing more than to remove their heads from their bodies for failing to protect his sister. Especially once he discovered what they had failed to protect her for. Or rather, _who_. 

That wolf-girl. Oberyn scowled at the thought of her—a child playing at royalty, that was what his uncle, sister, nephew, and thousands of good Dornishmen died for. Though he should’ve been ashamed for it, the news of her death brought some measure of grim satisfaction for him. Rhaegar may have been the instigator, but she was only too willing to go along with his schemes. 

He scoffed at the tale Baratheon and his dogs were peddling—kidnapped and raped—what utter nonsense. Rhaegar may have been a bastard, but brute force was never his way. No, that girl went with him willingly, forsaking the lives of her family as well as his own. For that, she got no sympathy from Oberyn. 

Lucerys’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. 

“Yes, that does pose some trouble.” He took a sip from his goblet. “What is it you would do with them?”

“I’m not keeping them in Sunspear,” Oberyn shook his head, vehemently. “They may keep their worthless heads, but they will not be under my roof longer than the time it takes for me to return to Dorne.” 

The silver-haired Lord nodded his head. “Yes, you’re correct. Your enmity has little to do with it, however. The simple fact is that those men have some of the most recognizable faces in the Kingdoms—keeping them all in one place, we might as well mount our heads on the pikes of Maegor’s Holdfast ourselves. I would propose sending them away.” 

“Where?”

Lucerys smiled into his goblet. “Our exiled King will need protection, do you not think?”

Oberyn was about to ask Lucerys why on earth Driftmark would be a wiser choice than Sunspear for the white cloaks, before he cottoned onto the hidden meaning in the lord’s words and chuckled. 

Sending the Kingsguard to guard the Lyseni pillow boy in Tyrosh. Not only would it make Lucerys’s mummery unquestionable to the usurper, it would also serve as a suitable punishment to those two lackwits. 

_They wanted to guard a child playing at royalty? By all means…_

“That would be quite wise, yes, my lord.”

Lucerys nodded, satisfied. “Very well. As for your other problems, I would assume you mean alliances.” He raised a haughty eyebrow. “Particularly those of the marriage variety.” 

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, surveying the lord on the other side of the desk with a smirk. “Never one to mince words, are you?”

“I’m afraid not. I presume you know of my previous agreement with your brother. Before our present…situation.”

The prince nodded. “You wanted little Aegon to marry your daughter, Laena.”

“A Velaryon queen,” Lucerys whispered to himself, almost a prayer. “After over a hundred years of being ignored, of slowly fading into obscurity despite our undying loyalty. Everything was so close—then Aerys had to muck it all up. He should have listened and put me in charge of the armies, not that simpering fool Connington. I would have razed Stoney Sept to the ground, down to the babes in their beds, and crushed the rebels for the whole realm to see.”

Oberyn’s eyes widened—it was times like this that reminded him that, shrewd and patient as he was, Lucerys and his family still had a significant amount of Targaryen blood running through their veins.

“Instead,” The older lord continued, “This is what we’re left with. I presume that my own proposal of Viserys wedding Laena won’t be so readily accepted.” 

Oberyn sucked in air through his teeth, almost for show. “I’m afraid not. My brother insists on Viserys wedding Arianne. Either that, or we could proclaim Rhaenys as heir—as she _would be_ in Dorne—and marry her to your son.” 

Lucerys shook his head. “This isn’t Dorne. The lords of Westeros will not accept a female ruler when a viable male heir sits right there waiting in the wings. However, make no mistake, I am the one harboring the king and princess and risking my family’s lives in the process, do not think I will settle for nothing less than what was agreed upon.” 

Oberyn tipped his head in acknowledgment of the point. “I am of a similar mind. That is why I would propose what I just said.” 

The Lord of Driftmark furrowed his brow. “What?” 

“We would give you Rhaenys, and she would wed your Monford in ten year's time. A Targaryen princess— _first_ in this new line of succession—seems a good form of recompense.” 

Lucerys leaned forward, clearly tempted. “Yes, it does. Though a princess does not equal a Queen.”

_Now it’s time to reel in the seahorse._

“It would, though, admittedly not as soon as you would like. Targaryens are fond of keeping their bloodline pure, and Rhaenys and Monford’s children would not only be half-targaryen, but Valyrian on both sides. Making their daughter a prime candidate for the next Queen.”

“I don’t want a prime candidate, I want a Queen,” Lucerys replied, bluntly. “If I were to agree to this, I want it in writing that the daughter of Rhaenys and Monford will wed Viserys’s heir once they both come of age. Am I understood?” 

Oberyn raised his hands in deference. “Perfectly. I shall have the documents written up and ready for Doran to sign before I return to Sunspear.” 

Lucerys nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Now that we have Viserys and Rhaenys sorted, we can speak on Daenerys. Though her arrival is a surprise, it does open up the potential for new alliances.” 

The dornishman found it slightly amusing how the Lord of Driftmark was proclaiming the girl as his daughter one moment, then offering her up like a broodmare for a few thousand soldiers the next. 

Doran was right. He contained multitudes.

“Indeed,” he replied. “But who? I think it’s safe to assume that neither the Vale, North, Riverlands, Stormlands, or Westerlands will be fighting for Viserys’s rights anytime soon.” 

A small, yet cocky grin made its way onto Lucerys’s face. “Never say never. Though you are quite right that as of now courting any of them would be impossible. The only two options would be the Reach and the Iron Islands.” 

“Should I make some overtures to the Queen of Thorns?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not—not now anyway. The Tyrells may be simpering lickspittles but they’re not fools. They’ve just lost a war and are now out of the crown’s favor, they’re most likely desperate to get back into its good graces. If we went to them with talk of treason, they would serve us up to the usurper on a silver platter if it meant he looked their way twice.” 

“Then what would you have us do?”

“Wait,” he replied, simply. “Cracks will form in this alliance somewhere down the line, these families are too different for anything else to happen—the only thing holding them all together is a whoremongering drunk with a crown on his head. This peace may seem stable, but trust me, my prince, it is fragile. All that’s needed is one small conflict, and they’ll eat each other.” 

Oberyn felt himself grow incredulous at the man’s plan, gripping the armrests on his chair a smidge too tight. “How long would you have me wait for justice? Twenty years? Thirty?!” 

Lucerys, meanwhile, looked unperturbed at the outburst, as if he was dealing with an unruly child. “Patience is a virtue, my prince, I suggest you exercise it more often. And no, we will not be waiting thirty years, or twenty. As I said, this alliance is fragile.” He stood from his chair and went to stand at the window. “A crack will form sooner or later, and when it does, that is when we strike. The Tyrells will remain out of the fold for a long while, that is certain. They’ll be waiting, like us, for conflict to occur so they can pick the winning side and get back into the crown’s good graces, whoever the crown may be. We make overtures then—Daenerys for their heir, Willas, and perhaps some more advantageous matches to bond ourselves further. The divide will also allow us to have a broader range of options—the Lannisters and Baratheons are out of the question, but the North, the Vale and the Riverlands could prove amenable, depending on the circumstances.” 

“All that’s missing is the ironborn,” Oberyn replied, sarcastically. 

Lucerys turned and smiled down at him, condescendingly. “You laugh, but the ironborn would be useful. Especially in the event that we can’t gain any new allies besides the Reach. They could reave up and down the coasts, providing the armies of the westward Kingdoms with quite the distraction while we get closer to King’s Landing. It is said that one should never underestimate their enemies, I’d count allies in that as well.” 

Oberyn conceded the point with a nod of his head. “So, where does all this leave us?” 

Lucerys sat back down in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Our position is not… _ideal_ , but with time, it will improve. House Velaryon is nowhere near as strong as it was a hundred years ago, but due to some rather advantageous trade charters I drew up during Aerys’s reign, we’re far wealthier than we were before his reign.” 

“The Baratheons will most like not honor those charters now,” Oberyn supplied. 

He nodded with a slight grimace. “That’s true, but our coffers have doubled nonetheless. Besides, I’ve been looking towards trade opportunities outside of Westeros that seem even more promising—no doubt this new alliance with Dorne will do wonders for us as well.” 

“Naturally,” Oberyn smirked. 

Lucerys mirrored his smirk. “See, not as hopeless as all that, are we, Prince Oberyn?”

Looking at the clever, self-satisfied man from across the desk, all Oberyn could think was one thing. 

_Thank God I’m not on the opposite side of this war, this man is fucking terrifying._


	2. Daenaera I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenaera anticipates the arrival of her eldest brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was pretty quick (and pretty short)! I think the next chapter could even be up and over by today! following an outline this time def makes things easier lol.

_ Driftmark, 294 AC _

The sun was long in the sky when her maids woke her, and she—as always—mumbled pettishly in an attempt to delay the start of her day, and—as always—it failed. 

Begrudgingly, she lifted herself up out of bed, and after her maids helped her bathe and put her in her favorite dress, she dismissed them and sat down at the vanity to brush her hair. Loathe as she may have been to wake, it was an important day. Monford was to come home for the first time in years, and his betrothed the princess Deria as well. 

Her eldest brother had been gone on some lengthy seafaring voyages with her Uncle Rhaemond for six years—bringing back treasures and lucrative trade deals each time, though he would always end up leaving again. Now, they were finally finished, Monford and Uncle Rhaemond would be back home for good. 

To say Daenaera was excited at this news would be an understatement, Monford had been her favorite of her siblings since she was born—not that she would ever admit it to the others—and now she could finally have him back home forever. She knew mother and father were overjoyed as well, how could they not be? 

However, this excitement was all slightly dimmed by the fact that she knew that in a few years, she’d be leaving home—and she wouldn’t get to come back. Her father told her it was her duty to marry a high lord, much to Daenaera’s chagrin. Why must it be her duty to wed some man so far from home who she didn’t even know? 

Not for the first time, she found herself wishing that House Velaryon hadn’t gotten so damn rich. Had they stayed decently wealthy like when she was born, she could’ve married one of her Celtigar cousins and been barely a stone’s throw away from home, or Alexander Massey, who she’d always got on with well, and who was even closer. Now, because of all the trade deals, the Dornish alliance, and the treasures—they were one of the wealthiest families in the Kingdoms, and her hand in marriage was considered valuable to far-away lords. 

Sighing, she lifted herself from her seat at her vanity and made her way down to the great hall, only to be surprised by a thin, dainty arm hooking itself into her own. She turned to see the ever-radiant smile of her elder sister, Laena. 

“And how are you this fine morning, dear Dany?” 

Daenaera returned her smile. “Very well, and you?” 

“Oh, just splendid. Say, you wouldn’t have heard of a certain cocky older brother returning to Driftmark today, would you?”

She snorted, electing to play along. “Why, no—I don’t think I have!”

“Oh, don’t you know him? About yea big,” she gestures above her head, “Insufferable, far too self-assured for his own good.” 

Daenaera smacks her sister lightly on the arm. “Oh stop, he’s not insufferable!” 

Laena let out an unladylike snort. “If only,” She turned more serious. “Really though, I can’t believe he’s finally home. For true.” 

“Pity we won’t get to appreciate it for long,” Dany failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice. 

Laena, meanwhile, rolled her eyes. “Oh do stop with the doom and gloom, Daenaera. I’m ten-and-five, and I know for a fact father won’t even think of selling me off until I’m twenty. The women in our family get quite a bit of leniency in this area, or don’t you remember Aunt Shiera didn’t get wed until she was six-and-twenty.” 

She thought of her Aunt Shiera then, now the Lady Dayne, with some hope, although it quickly fizzled out when she reminded herself of the context. 

“Things were different then, we weren’t anywhere near as valuable as we are now—“

“—Dany,” Laena stopped walking and peered down at her sister, intently. “You are ten years old, you needn’t worry about this for a good while. Rest assured, if father tries to sell you off before you turn ten-and-six, I’ll be having words with him,” she winked, mischievously. 

Though she doubted her sister’s ability to change father’s mind on anything—she loved him, but he was as stubborn as an ox—she felt a surge of affection for Laena at that moment. 

“Ah, so this is where you two have been,” came a familiar voice. 

They turned to see the smiling face of Aurane, their older bastard brother, at the end of the hall. “Aurey,” Laena nodded towards him. “Excited to see Monford again?” 

Aurane snorted. “Of course, it'll be good to be able to speak with another man that isn't father." He put on a mock-dismayed tone. "I’m surrounded by women!" 

Laena rolled her eyes, playfully. “Oh please, you have Jacaerys.” 

“He’s five,” he replied, deadpan. 

“When you think about it, you’re five as well…just with a few namedays tacked on.” 

Their brother laughed and shook his head, his long silver hair swaying with each movement. “ _Anyhow_ , Lord and Lady Velaryon are expecting you in the great hall, we mustn’t tarry.” 

They followed Aurane through the long, winding halls of Driftmark. Daenaera never quite knew what to make of her bastard brother. She loved him well enough, and she knew her family—even her mother—did as well. However, there were times when he would look at her oddly. Flashes of hurt would cross his face whenever she japed with Monford or Laena, the occasional wistful smile whenever she laughed with him, a lingering stare here and there—Almost as if he was urging her to put together the pieces of a puzzle she didn’t know existed.

Reaching the great hall, she looked up to see the servants hard at work decorating for the upcoming wedding, as well as her family at the end of the hall seated at the table for their morning meal. 

She greeted her mother and father with a kiss on the cheek, and Laena followed suit, whilst Aurane settled for a slight nod and a muttered _‘My lord, My lady’._

“So, children,” came her mother’s soft voice. “I trust you’re all quite ready to greet Monford and your good-sister-to-be.” 

“You’re certain she’s arriving today?”

Father cleared his throat. “Our scouts spotted three ships flying the Martell standard just over the horizon, they’ll be here by late afternoon.” 

“And what of Monford, father?” She heard herself ask.

Father gave her an indulgent smile. “His and Rhaemond’s fleet is visible last I checked, I’d wager he’s sitting here with us in less than an hour.” 

The sibling all exchanged smiles with each other. 

“Oh, that reminds me, Aurane,” her brother turned to look at their father. “I need to see you in my study after you finish breaking your fast. There is a matter that needs discussing.” 

Aurane gave him a tight nod. “Of course, father.” 

Dany furrowed her brow at this. Father and Aurane were always having these odd little exchanges with one another, they truly were quite close—ofttimes she thought father was closer with Aurane than he was with Monford. They spent so much time in his study speaking about gods know what. 

“I’m very excited to meet Princess Deria,” said Jacaerys, smiling broadly. 

“As am I,” said Aurane, a queer look in his eyes. 

“It won’t just be Princess Deria,” Mother reminded them, taking a light sip from her goblet. “It’ll be a significant chunk of the Dornish court. Prince Oberyn, Prince Doran, Princess Ashara, Princess Arianne, Prince Morgan, and many others. I trust you’ll all remember your courtesies and honor our house?” She raised an eyebrow at Laena. 

Laena put a hand to her heart, feigning shock. “Why mother, I am offended at the mere suggestion that I would ever deign to—“

“—Oh do stop, Laena. I do not want a repeat of what happened with Prince Joffrey and that bottle of wine.” 

Laena raised her chin, haughtily. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, the culprit was never found.” 

Dany suppressed a chuckle at the memory. Prince Joffrey had been quite rude during the royal court’s visit to Driftmark, bragging on and on about his wealth and martial prowess, even though the boy was barely seven. Laena had had more than enough of his attitude and replaced his watered wine with a much stronger variety from YiTi. The prince got so drunk he vomited all over Queen Cersei’s feet and completely humiliated himself. Thankfully, King Robert had laughed heartily and japed that whoever had done it would earn a knighthood. The only thing that stopped Laena from coming forward was Queen Cersei’s murderous expression. 

She didn’t much like Queen Cersei. All she ever did their stay here was spend her time with her Kinsguard, Ser Tristan Lannister. And when the Queen wasn’t off with him, she was looking down her nose at her family’s hospitality. Even King Robert—usurper that he was—was more amenable to them. 

Mother stared at Laena with a raised eyebrow until her sister finally caved. 

“Very well, best behavior,” she conceded, grumbling like a babe denied a sweet. 

Daenaera shook her head fondly, though before she could continue tucking into her meal, she heard the distinct sound of the bells from the Siren tower signaling a ship’s arrival. 

Her and Laena exchanged looks before jumping from the table and sprinting towards the entrance of the castle, oblivious of mother’s chastisements. They raced down the halls for what seemed like ages before they reached the great ironwood doors of the castle’s entryway and had the guards push them open. They continued on running down the footbridge until they reached the bottom of the great cliff that Castle Driftmark was built on and arrived at the gatehouse, where they were greeted by two smiling faces they hadn’t seen in three years. 

“Monford!” Dany jumped into his arms, and Monford embraced his younger sister, ruffling her hair fondly. 

After the embrace, she got a good look at him. At four-and-twenty, her brother was practically the spitting image of their father, though he’d inherited mother’s more ethereal beauty, evidenced by the softness of his cheeks. Though he was still of a rather willowy build, he was a bit more muscular than father, as—due to an injury during the fire of Summerhall—their father was never able to be properly trained as a warrior. 

“I missed you, little sister,” He said, and his voice somehow sounded even deeper than before. 

“And I you,” she gave him another tight hug, wrapping her arms around his waist tightly. 

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Came the smirking voice of her uncle Rhaemond. 

She released Monford and ran into his arms with a grin. “I missed you too, uncle.” 

Looking up at him, it was plain that there was a strong resemblance between him and father in the shape of their heads, but that was where it ended. Uncle Rhaemond had inherited her grandmother’s Lyseni features, particularly the violet eyes which Dany had also been blessed with.

“So, I take it my brother is waiting for us in the castle, judging by the fact that the temperature out here hasn’t dropped by ten degrees.” 

Laena chuckled. “Yes, he’s very excited to see the both of you.” Uncle Rhaemond made a doubtful sound in the back of his throat but said nothing. “He should be in his study with Aurane.” She turned to Monford, “And according to him, your wife-to-be should be here in a matter of hours. Arriving on the same day—It would appear that it’s fate.” 

Monford groaned, running his hand over his face. Dany knew that he felt rather strange about marrying Princess Deria, considering the fact that she was ten years his junior and he’d never met her. She was sure that Monford would like his new wife, however—she’d corresponded with Deria and she seemed to be intelligent and kind, with that dry Dornish wit that was so common in her people. 

“Fate is a fickle thing, sister,” Monford replied, darkly. Shaking off his apprehension, he turned to Dany. “But enough of all that, right now I want to hear all about what you two have got up to since I’ve been gone!”

Linking arms, Laena and Daenaera regaled Monford and Uncle Rhaemond with stories from the past three years, while simultaneously peppering them with questions about their grand voyage. As they made their way back up to the castle, Daenaera couldn’t help but feel overjoyed at having her whole family back under one roof.


	3. Lucerys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucerys begins to set his plans into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankfully this one was already written, so i just had to edit. two in one day, woohoo! though don't expect this to be a regular thing lmao. Anyhow, enjoy!

“I trust you know why I’ve dragged you in here,” Lucerys said, with no preamble. 

Viserys—no longer needing to keep up the pretense of Aurane—straightened in his seat. “Yes, my lord.” 

“When the princess arrives, you are to act as if you’ve never met her, am I clear?” Lucerys surveyed his ward through narrowed eyes. 

Viserys fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortably. “Does she…”

“Know that you’re here?” The boy nodded. “Yes, she’s been informed. But nevertheless, the situation is already delicate as is, we cannot have you acting as if she’s more than a stranger. More specifically, more than your _better_.”

Viserys clenched his jaw in thinly veiled irritation, to which Lucerys sighed. When was the boy going to learn that a crown wouldn’t just land in his lap? 

“Do you hear me, boy?” Viserys turned his glare onto him, but Lucerys knew that there was no real threat there. His king may have been impatient, but he wasn’t anything like his father—thank the gods. “The princess is to be ‘my princess,’ or ‘Princess Deria.’ Nothing more, nothing less. You are a bastard until the day that crown touches your head, so act the part—Unless you’d like to see both my family and what's left of yours die for your pride.” 

Viserys had the decency to look slightly ashamed at the rebuke. One could say many things about the lad, but Lucerys knew that he had raised a fine man, and he’d make an even finer king. He was but a shadow of that scared little boy that landed on the shores of Driftmark a decade prior, refusing to let go of his infant sister. 

Slowly, he shook his head. "I won't address her in any manner that could be deemed impertinent or informal." He looked up at Lucerys with tired eyes. "You have my word."

Nodding, Lucerys gave him an indulgent pat on the shoulder, before moving to sit.

“Now," he clapped his hands and sat down. "Onto more joyous tidings: My brother is to be wed.” 

At this, Viserys blinked. _“R_ _haemond?”_ He asked, disbelief plain in his voice. “To who?”

“Oh, I think you should wait to find out who the lucky lady is until he arrives. ’Twill be much more amusing that way.”

Before Viserys could say anything more, the study door opened to reveal his son and heir, Monford, and his younger brother Rhaemond. 

Slightly peeved at Rhaemond’s incessant refusal to knock, he pushed the feelings aside to greet the both of them. He gave his son—now most definitely a man—a strong embrace, whilst nodding approvingly at his brother. 

“Aurane,” Monford greeted his ‘half-brother’ with a wide grin, and the two embraced, exchanging greetings and anecdotes. 

After they’d all finished their initial greetings, he invited Rhaemond and Monford to sit down. Monford—dutiful lad he was—obeyed, while Rhaemond elected to stand, leaning against the wall with an impertinent smirk on his face. 

Lucerys found he’d take great pleasure in wiping it off. 

“Now, Monford, everything is prepared for the wedding. Our scouts have just informed me the Martell’s ships are just about to reach High Tide, the Princess should be arriving within four to five hours.” 

His son nodded, though there was apprehension in his face. 

“Speak, Monford,” Lord Velaryon said, not unkindly. “I would like to know why it is you look as if I’m wedding you to the stranger.”

Swallowing his nerves, the young lord spoke. “She’s just so _young_.”

It took every ounce of patience that Lucerys had not to roll his eyes. “Gods, is that what’s got you in such a state? My boy, this is how things are done in our world. My mother was six-and-ten when she married my _forty-year-old father,_ yet they found happiness. Do you plan on mistreating her?”

The question seemed to horrify Monford. “No, of course not!”

“Do you plan on keeping her locked up, preventing her from doing the things she loves?” 

“How could you think me capable of such a thing?”

“Then what is the matter? The princess will be perfectly fine here then—many noble girls share her fate of being married off to older men, and the vast majority of them aren’t anywhere near as fortunate as she is in her spouse. You are a good man, my son—I should know, I raised you. So quit this clucking—it’s befitting of a hen, not an heir to a great house.” 

Monford seemed to be pacified the slightest amount, but he was still clearly troubled by it all. 

Lucerys knew the perfect solution for that. 

“Besides, it could be worse. You could have a much larger age difference, like Rhaemond and his betrothed.” 

That finally got the idiot’s attention, as the smirk dropped from his face and he looked about ready to have a conniption fit. “Wh-What? What do you mean, _my_ betrothed?”

“Ah,” Lucerys’s tone was mocking. “Did I not inform you? Oh, how silly of me—Congratulations are in order, brother.” He pulled out the contract from his desk drawer, handing it to Rhaemond, who hastily ripped open the seal and began reading. “You have been betrothed to the young Lady Desmera of House Redwyne.” 

When he finished reading the parchment, his brother’s face was damn near ashen. “Are you mad?!”

“I think my mental faculties are quite satisfactory, so no.”

“The girl is one-and-ten!” 

Lucerys scoffed. “You won’t be wedding her now, you imbecile. Her family insists that it take place no sooner than her six-and-tenth nameday, she’ll be a woman grown by then.” 

Rhaemond appeared to be vibrating in silent rage. “You cannot—“

“—You forget your place, _brother_. I am your lord, so I most certainly can.” Lucerys’s voice was as cold and firm as permafrost. “At any rate, this marriage will not take place for another five years, you needn’t act as if I’ve impeded any upcoming plans.” 

However, Rhaemond appeared to have not taken in any of this information, and, in a futile attempt to save himself from the marriage, blurted out: “What of Jacaerys? Would this not be a much better match for him? Seven hells, the boy’s ahead of me in the line of succession!”

Lucerys leaned back into his seat, surveying his fuming brother cooly. “As touching as your concern for my second son is, it is misplaced. I have much loftier plans for Jacaerys than some _Redywne girl_ , you had best believe that.” 

Rhaemond looked ready to say something he was about to dearly regret, so before he could, Lucerys decided his poor brother had had enough of the stick. Now it was time for the carrot.

“Besides, this marriage will not be completely without benefit for you. Due to an overabundance of trade as of late, I’m having Spicetown rebuilt.”

His younger brother furrowed his brow. “Spicetown?” 

The prosperous trade settlement built by Corlys Velaryon had been destroyed by the Greens during the dance of the dragons, crippling House Velaryon’s trade and ensuring that they would never be quite as powerful or wealthy again. Now that Lucerys had finally dug them out of the hole Alicent Hightower and her dogs had put them in for the past century, it was time to rebuild. 

“Yes. And not only am I putting you in charge of the project, but I’m also commissioning a keep to be built there, for you and your children after you. You may have it constructed to whatever specifications you please, provided it's not too outlandish. Your family will serve as governors of Spicetown from this point on. A lucrative position, to be sure.”

He could see the wheels turning in Rhaemond’s head. Lucerys could almost laugh—he knew his younger brother better than the oaf knew himself. 

After what seemed to be an eternity, Rhaemond—though not without an impudent scowl—begrudgingly nodded his assent to the match. 

“Splendid! Once again I offer my congratulations, dearest brother. Oh, and one more thing, you are to take on a squire.” 

Rhaemond paused. “Who?”

“Horas Redwyne, the girl’s eldest brother, and the heir to the Arbor. He’ll be on his way to Driftmark as soon as I send the raven. Do treat him well, he is to be your good-brother after all.”

Rhaemond grunted his assent, then, after petulantly asking to take his leave, exited the solar. 

Lucerys turned to the two boys in front of him and saw them both barely managing to contain their laughs. With a scoff, he addressed them. “Now, are you two finished giggling like a pair of fishwives, or do you need a moment?”

Immediately they sobered. Clearing his throat, Monford asked: “Father, what is it that you meant by having ‘loftier plans’ for Jacaerys?”

Lucerys smirked. He raised no fools, thank the gods. “I’m glad you caught that. I’ve been corresponding with Stannis Baratheon.” 

Viserys scrunched up his face. “The usurper’s brother? What does he want?” 

“It’s not what he wants, it’s what I want. We’re discussing a betrothal between Jacaerys and his daughter Shireen.”

Monford’s eyes widened. “But, doesn’t she have—you know,” he vaguely gestured to his face.

He nodded in confirmation. “Yes, she had greyscale as an infant, and bears the scars to this day. But once one meets her they can easily look past it. She’s a sweet girl—a bit strange, perhaps, but it’s a wonder she’s turned out as well as she has with that shrew of a mother.” Lord Velaryon shuddered involuntarily at the image of Selyse Baratheon. “Anyhow, she and Jacaerys are of an age, and this _would_ make matters easier when it comes to the Stormlands.” 

Viserys leaned forward in his chair, finally catching on. “Wait, you mean to say that—“

“—Yes.” He nodded his head. “When the time comes, I will need to betray Stannis—the man is too bloody honorable to even think of persuading him to our cause. However, by that point the betrothal would be official, and we could use him as leverage against the stormlords. Perhaps a significant amount would fight nonetheless, as they bear him no great love, but it would drastically alter their power. Once the war is over, we name him Lord of Storm’s End, his daughter heir, and marry her and Jacaerys to ensure that the stormlands remain loyal to the crown for generations—as a cadet branch to our house.” 

“And what of Renly, and Cersei’s children?” Asked Viserys.

“Renly will not be producing any heirs anytime soon, judging from the foul rumors I hear about him from King’s Landing. At any rate, he won't survive the war, I'll make sure of it. As for Cersei and her pups, in order to eliminate any challenges to your throne, we’ll either have to kill them or exile them—though you shall make that decision when the time comes.” Lucerys leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. “ _House Velaryon of Storm’s End._ I have to say it does have a certain ring to it.” 

Both of the boys looked at each other with disbelieving smiles on their faces. 

“But that’s still a ways off,” He cautioned them, aiming a significant look at Viserys. “Rhaemond’s marriage is the only one secure for now, and that already does us a significant amount of good.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “The girl is not only a Reacher from a powerful house, but she’s also a Tyrell on her mother’s side—the Queen of Thorns’ own granddaughter. Wedding her and Rhaemond will give us a significant edge when it comes time to begin negotiations with the Tyrells. They’ll be far more likely to accept Daenerys and Willas’s union.” 

“Is it time, then?” Viserys asked, perking up from his seat. “Is this it?”

Lucerys shook his head. “Not yet.” Viserys deflated, though he pressed on. “But it will be, sooner rather than later. Monford and Rhaenys’s union is a significant enough step—and that will take place in but a week’s time.” 

The Lord of Driftmark stood from his desk, surveying the boys he raised with a keen eye. Lucerys was never a warrior—a burning beam that had fallen on his shoulder during the fire of Summerhall had snuffed out any aspirations on that end. He was a tall, thin man with little muscle and even less martial skill. Politics was truly the only sport he was good at. Nevertheless, here sat two warriors—both frightful on the battlefield and in the command tent—that he’d brought up. While Viserys may have come from Aerys’s seed, he had been made in Lucerys's image through and through. Though there was much of Rhaella’s gentle heart in there as well. 

He would make a great King, of that much he was sure. 

“Well, then, that’ll be all. Go, Monford, enjoy your last few hours of freedom,” He sent his son off with a cheeky smile. “As for you, _Aurane,”_ The change in name signaled to the both of them that Viserys would have to resume his mummery. “Go help Lady Velaryon with the plans for the Princess’s arrival. I expect everything to be immaculate.” 

With a deferential _'Yes, my lord,’_ Viserys left the solar. 

As the hours passed, the Lord of Driftmark continued his work for the day, signing document after document, sending raven after raven, until finally the familiar chime of the bells from the Siren’s tower alerted him to the arrival of the Dornish party. With a groan, he lifted himself up from his desk—Gods, the years were getting to his knees—and made his way to the Great Hall to welcome their guests. 

Once he arrived at the hall, he saw his wife, Lysandra, waiting patiently along with Laena, Rhaemond, Jacaerys, and Dany (Gods, the girl was the spitting image of Rhaella). Viserys was in the back, with the servants, as befitting a bastard’s status, whilst Monford was greeting his betrothed and her party down at the dock. He took a few steps towards the Driftwood throne—a relic from an era when the title ‘Lord of the Tides’ had meaning—and sat down on it, ready to greet his allies. 

He’d only met Prince Doran in person once—at Rhaegar and Elia’s wedding—and the clever prince of Dorne had left quite the impression on him. So much so that after Rhaegar’s humiliation of Elia Martell, they’d struck up a plan through ravens: For Lucerys to convince Aerys to have Rhaegar skipped over in favor of his infant son Aegon, in exchange for the subsequent betrothal of Aegon to Laena. 

It had been so close…

The Lord of Driftmark shook his head, there was no use dwelling on the past. 

Oberyn, he was much more familiar with. The man had brought over Viserys and Daenerys from Dragonstone, saving them from sure death at the hands of Stannis—not that Lord Stannis himself would've ordered such a thing, but Robert's hatred for the Targaryens was well known, and had he ordered his brother to carry out the killings, he would have done so. It was a pity Oberyn couldn’t do the same for Rhaella, but alas, the birthing bed had claimed his old friend before Oberyn’s arrival. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the prince. He made a habit of visiting Driftmark every few years, checking up on how Viserys and his sister had adjusted, but mostly to evaluate whether Monford was worthy of his niece, much to the nervousness of his eldest. 

The sounds of the doors opening jarred him out of his thoughts, and he straightened in his throne. 

The first to come was Monford, with what must’ve been Princess Rhaenys on his arm. The last time he’d seen the girl had been when she was four—since then, she’d grown into quite a beauty. She’d taken after her mother in her coloring, for sure, but she was generally less swarthy than Elia had been. Her hair was a mousy brown whereas Elia’s was as black as a starless night, her skin was similar though a shade or two lighter than her mother’s. Generally, she had grown up to be a mix of both parents, having inherited Rhaegar’s eyes and jaw, but Elia’s more understated beauty. When she approached him, she greeted him with a slight bow and a muttered _‘Lord Velaryon’_ , though there was a certain fire in her violet eyes that spoke to a more spirited personality than she let on.

Yes, Monford would like this one. 

Turning to the rest of the court, he caught the eye of Prince Doran and they exchanged nods of quiet solidarity. Oberyn greeted him jovially with an embrace he wasn’t at all ready for and introduced his family formally. His ‘daughter’ was introduced as the light of his life—with a glare aimed at Monford, who shrank in response—and the son he had with Ashara was introduced as well. Young Prince Morgan was every inch a Dayne, though he had inherited Oberyn’s thick black curls. The now-Princess Ashara greeted him with a light kiss on both cheeks. Lucerys remembered the girl from his time in King’s Landing—her dry wit and unfailing loyalty to Rhaella had endeared her to him. 

Meanwhile, Princess Arianne looked as if she preferred to be anywhere but here, and seemed quite bored with the occasion. Though the girl was clearly spoiled, she was quite beautiful. Though Gods only knew whether that beauty was worth that attitude. He snorted at the reminder that she was Viserys’s wife-to-be. He would surely have a fun time with this one. 

The rest of the court began filing in shortly after, various Dornish lords and ladies ready to send off their beloved princess. Lucerys couldn’t help but feel that the sheer amount of nobles made certain this was as much a message as it was a progress:

_“Hurt our princess, and this is what you will have to contend with.”_

He found himself thankful he had no plans to do such a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this one, next POV is coming from our favorite exiled 'Martell' princess herself.


	4. Rhaenys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys arrives at Driftmark and worries over her upcoming wedding, while seeing a few familiar faces.

“There, my dear, now you’re truly ready.” 

Ashara’s voice was softer than it had ever been as she put the Martell pendant of the speared sun around her neck, and she appeared to be gazing at her 'daughter' with unshed tears in her violet eyes.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” Rhaenys admitted, a sad look crossing her face. 

And how was she to be ready? She was but a girl, barely ten-and-four, leaving the home she’d known for the past ten years—as well as her family—for an older man who she knew naught about. Lord Monford was kind enough in the few correspondences they’d shared, and her uncle Oberyn assured her he was a decent man, but she still barely knew him. Now, here she was, getting married to a stranger. 

Her mother—her real mother—had also gone to a strange land to marry a man she barely knew. 

How did that turn out? 

She remembered little of being Rhaenys Targaryen. The name had always felt more natural than Deria to her, but the memories associated with it had become murky and clouded. All she could recall were glimpses of her parents, the feeling of her father’s soft breath on the back of her neck as he read her stories of the conquest, the sound of her mother’s sweet voice as she played hide-and-seek with her in the gardens of the red keep. And yet, she was being sold off because of them. Rhaenys recalled how she’d cried when Uncle Doran told her she would leave them one day to be married, go from Sunspear to Driftmark. She’d been eight years old, and the only solace she could find in that was that Viserys would be there. Her memories of Viserys had been clearer then, and she'd greatly missed her uncle and playmate. 

Over the years, however, those memories faded. Who was to say Viserys was the same? What if he was just like her grandfather now? Why was this happening? 

She didn’t know. Politics was beyond her understanding. Either way, the result remained the same. 

“Rhaenys,” Ashara said, and the name caused her to perk up. Nobody ever called her Rhaenys anymore—only Jaime or Oberyn ever dared, and that was only when they knew there was nobody close to hear. “I know it seems frightening now, but believe me when I tell you that your uncle and I would not be doing this if we were not sure it was the right decision. Whatever happens, Jaime will be by your side to protect you every step of the way.” 

The thought of Jaime staying on as her sworn sword did much to alleviate her stresses, though she was still frightened. 

“I just—I wish things could be different. I wish I could’ve had more time.” 

Ashara frowned, reaching to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I do as well, sweetness. However, your uncles believe this course of action to be best, and we must trust them. If Oberyn believes your betrothed to be a decent man who will treat you well—and you _know_ how your uncle gets when it comes to you—,” there was more than a touch of humor in her tone, “Then I’m sure he is.” 

When Rhaenys looked up, she was startled to find that a tear had escaped her aunt’s eyes, though she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. “Your mother would be so proud of the woman you’ve become,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. 

Looking back at her reflection in the mirror—dressed in the traditional dornish garb, ready to be introduced to the man she would spend the rest of her life with—she could only hope Ashara was right. 

The moment was interrupted by a loud knock on the door, startling them both.

“We’re docking, so hurry it along!” 

They both shook their heads fondly at the impatient voice of Morgan—Uncle Oberyn and Aunt Ashara’s son. His birth had been a surprise—as, according to Oberyn, the two were only ever friends and had consummated their union just the once to make it valid—but it had been a joyous thing for Rhaenys to get another little brother. No one could ever replace Aegon in her heart, and she thought of him every day, but Morgan had helped ease the longing significantly, unbeknownst to him. 

“Well then, shall we?” Ashara extended her hand, beckoning her to take it. 

With a tight nod, Rhaenys took hold, and followed her along up to the ship’s deck, where she was met with the sight of what would be her new home. 

She almost gasped. Driftmark was an intimidating castle, to be sure—it sat atop a cliff, its nearly black valyrian stone walls almost blocking out the sun from her view—but there was also an incredible beauty to it. The water around it was the clearest she’d ever seen, and the sky was just so _blue_. 

Rhaenys felt a tap on her shoulder, only to turn around and be greeted by the smirking face of her white knight, Ser Jaime. He’d dyed his hair black and grown a beard, as per her Uncle’s orders so he wouldn’t be recognized once settled into Driftmark, but the natural swagger in his demeanor, as well as the telltale gleam in his eyes, screamed Lannister. 

He nodded toward the dock, and she turned back to see a retinue of household guards—all with shields bearing the Velaryon sigil—and a handsome young man with striking silver hair at the center of them all. Jaime made some smart remark or other, but she couldn't hear it over the sound of her blood pounding in her ears at the thought of that man on the deck.

Her betrothed. 

And in a week’s time, her husband. 

She would’ve stayed there on the deck gaping like an idiot had it not been for Morgan shaking her out of her trance and pointing her to the gangplank, where both of her ‘parents’ already stood waiting on the other end. Regaining her composure, she disembarked the ship and stepped onto the deck, looking around to see the rest of the dornish retinue doing the same, and catching a glimpse of her uncle Doran conversing lightly with her betrothed. 

Steeling herself with a deep breath, she followed behind Oberyn as he made towards them, and after an introduction by her uncle that sounded muffled to her ears, he stepped aside and beckoned her forward to meet Lord Monford. 

The first thing she noticed was how beautiful he was—not handsome, his looks were far too epicene and ethereal for that designation. In a way, it reminded her of her father, though she quickly scrubbed that image from her mind as to not make this any stranger than it already was. 

His eyes were green, though not like Jaime’s were—no, these were a unique shade of turquoise. It looked as if someone had poured seawater into his head, and his eyes were reflecting the color back to her. 

But above all, she sensed something in him that she couldn’t quite put her name to. A kindred spirit, perhaps? There was no haughtiness or aloofness in his demeanor as she’d feared, if anything he looked quite nervous to meet her himself. 

“Princess?” He asked, his brow furrowed in concern. “Is everything alright?”

Rhaenys blinked, flushing scarlet in the realization that she’d been staring at him openly for far too long. “Y-Yes, apologies, my lord. It has been a long journey.” 

He smiled, almost unsurely. “You may call me Monford—if it pleases you, my Princess.” 

She returned the smile, hesitant as he was. “Very well, Monford. You may call me Deria as well if it pleases you.”

“Deria,” he said, almost as if he were trying out the name on his tongue. “Well then, _Deria,_ my princes, Princess,” he nodded to Ashara, “As charmed as I am to make your acquaintance, I hate to keep my father waiting, so if you’d follow me.” He extended his arm to Rhaenys, which she took after only a moment of hesitation. 

The walk up to the castle was mostly quiet on her end, but there was pleasant enough conversation between Monford and her uncles. Though she was slightly mollified by her meeting with Monford, she still couldn’t help the feeling of doom that crept up in her throat as the walls of Driftmark got closer and closer. She still didn’t know Monford, and the thought of Viserys still weighed heavily in her mind. 

Rhaenys was so lost in her own fretful thoughts that she didn’t even notice they’d arrived in the castle until the doors of the great hall opened. A row of soldiers was stationed on both sides of her, and they extended all the way up to what must have been the rest of the Velaryon family, judging from the silver hair and the strikingly similar looks they bore to Monford. She looked around for Viserys but didn’t see him anywhere near. 

At the center of them all, seated on what looked to be the Driftwood throne—if she remembered her studies correctly—appeared to be Lord Lucerys Velaryon, and this was confirmed to her by Monford himself when he introduced her to him. 

While there was definitely a resemblance between father and son, Lord Velaryon had none of Monford’s softer beauty. He was handsome, to be sure, but it was in a more austere manner than his son. He was also thinner than Monford—though both possessed a rather lithe build—and taller. While his son had a shy disposition to him, Lord Velaryon looked as dignified as Uncle Doran did whenever he held court at Sunspear—though there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes that was much more akin to Oberyn. As opposed to Monford’s soft tone of voice, when Lord Velaryon spoke to her, his was almost reedy:

“My Princess,” he said, silkily. “Welcome to Driftmark.”

“Lord Velaryon,” she muttered, bowing her head slightly. When she turned to look him in the eye, she saw a hint of appraisal in those eyes that were a familiar shade of sea-green, as if he were getting the measure of her. Refusing to be cowed, she met his stare with one of her own, and after a few seconds, a small smile made its way onto his face, and he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. 

Introductions were made to the rest of the family as well. The difference between Lord Velaryon’s intimidating, formal greeting, and his wife’s warm, familiar one was so jarring she couldn’t help but think how on earth those two were man and wife. Laena—Monford’s eldest sister—greeted her warmly as well, and, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes (pale blue like her mother’s, rather than her father’s, she noted), promised her any information she wished on her husband-to-be, embarrassing or not. 

It was when Rhaenys got to his youngest sister that she froze. 

Indigo eyes stared up at her that were so mind-boggling in their familiarity she gasped. 

When she took in the rest of the girl, all the blood drained from her face. Those big eyes, arched brows, full lips, that rare shade of silver-gold hair as Targaryen as the dragons of old. 

_Grandmother._

The girl appeared to realize her shock and furrowed her brow in confusion. “Are you alright, Princess?”

_Gods, she even sounds like her._

Lord Velaryon, clearly having taken notice of her reaction—and, from the widening of his eyes when he looked between them, knowing the reason for it—quickly tasked someone named Aurane to take her to her rooms, citing a lack of rest as the most likely culprit for her behavior. 

She gave a stilted apology to the family and promised to rest well so she could properly acquaint themselves with her tomorrow morning when they broke their fasts, then followed the man named Aurane down the winding halls of Driftmark without so much as even glancing at him from her shock. 

It can’t have been…surely those looks were a coincidence. The Targaryens and Velaryons shared far more blood than most noble families—after all, Lord Velaryon’s own great-grandmother was a Targaryen. 

But…that _face_.

“Here you are, princess,” The man named Aurane told her when they reached her rooms, and she had to do a double-take when she heard that voice. It was…oddly familiar. 

Rhaenys turned around to look at him and when she saw his face, finally realizing just who Aurane was, her earlier worries about what he’d turned into washed away completely. 

His smile was as bright as she remembered, and his eyes contained none of the sneering malice of his father. 

“They said you were here,” Her voice sounded small to her. “I…I looked for you in the great hall, but you weren’t…”

Viserys shook his head. “Bastards aren’t presented with the rest of the family, it’d be seen as an insult here.” His voice contained a bitter tinge to it, but she could tell he was trying to suppress it. 

Without warning, she jumped into his arms and embraced him tightly. After a moment of shock, he snaked his arms around her middle and returned it. 

“I missed you so much,” she said, her voice catching on the last word. 

“And I you.” 

When she released him, she got a good look at him for the first time. While he was still recognizable to her, he had changed a significant amount. He bore a decent resemblance to her father, yet he wasn’t quite as tall or as muscular. He’d grown his hair out a bit, though it wasn’t anywhere near as long as father’s—Viserys had opted for a shorter look, close to but not quite reaching his shoulders. His face resembled grandfather’s more than grandmother’s, though without the ravages of time and madness present in it.

Her elation was cut short by the reminder of grandmother—and the young Velaryon girl with the suspiciously similar looks. 

“That girl,” Rhaenys said, and she could tell by the way Viserys’s face fell that her suspicions were correct. “She’s not a Velaryon, is she?” 

After a few seconds of a torturously tense silence, he sat down by the lit fireplace, the conflicted expression on his face made even more obvious by its glow. 

“No. She’s my sister.” 

Rhaenys sat down next to him, running her hand over her face. “How?”

“Mother was pregnant when we left.” He replied, simply. “I don’t think she was so far along that you would’ve noticed, especially at your age, and most like Elia didn’t see the point in informing you.” 

“No—I know she was pregnant! But, the babe, she was lost—or at least I thought so! Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”

He seemed to expect her anger, in fact, he looked to sympathize. “I don’t know. Perhaps they thought the less you knew the better. I think the only reason they told you about me was that you’d known me, and would’ve recognized my face sooner or later.” 

“How could they think I wouldn’t recognize my grandmother’s face?” 

Viserys smirked. “Believe it or not, nobody’s recognized it until now. It could be because mother rarely attended court and was confined to Maegor’s for most of the latter half of her life, but even Cersei Lannister didn’t look twice at her when she visited Driftmark a while back, and she’d seen my mother far more than most. Strangely enough, Lord Velaryon told me that Ser Barristan appeared to have recognized her.”

Rhaenys’s eyes widened. “He did? Why isn’t everyone here dead then?” 

“I think he couldn’t believe it to be true. Everyone thinks the babe was lost, so he would’ve thought it impossible. But, if he did know, I don’t think he would’ve said anything. Ser Barristan always struck me as a good man, regardless of his transgressions.”

“And did he recognize you?”

Viserys shook his head. “I was away when the court came here to ensure nothing like that could happen. Lord Velaryon sent me to Stonedance to work out the finer details of some grain shipment with Lord Massey.”

“How many people know who she is?” 

“Myself, Lord and Lady Velaryon, Monford, Ashara, Prince Oberyn, and Prince Doran.” 

Rhaenys gaped, disbelievingly. “No one else? Not even the rest of the family?” 

“Monford is the only one of his siblings who knows the truth of it. Laena and Jacaerys believe that I’m their bastard brother and that she’s their sister. As does she, herself.” 

Rhaenys heaved out a tired sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of it all. “Gods, first I’m sent off to marry a stranger halfway across the country, now I have to contend with all this.” 

Viserys gave her a tired smile. “Monford’s a good man, he’ll treat you well. There’s nothing for you to worry about on that front.” 

Strangely, the words that Ashara had told her merely an hour ago resonated far more coming from Viserys’s mouth. 

“So,” she said, after a lengthy but comfortable silence. “Here we are—a princess of Dorne and a bastard.”

He snorted, giving her a light shove. “A Targaryen princess and a King.”

“Some days I have trouble remembering which one,” she admitted, almost to herself. 

“As do I.” 

The day after her arrival proved much easier than the first. The morning after their slightly disastrous introductions, Rhaenys managed to apologize to her aunt/good-sister to be for their first meeting, and the girl, Daenaera, shrugged off the incident, insisting there was no harm done. After that, she engaged in deep conversation with her and found out that looks weren’t the only thing she had in common with her grandmother. They conversed on the poetry she enjoyed, the histories she loved to read, and she couldn’t help but see how Dany spoke of her own marriage choices with the matter-of-fact realism of an aging lady with a brood of children, not the idealistic fawning of a ten-year-old noble girl. 

As Targaryen as she may have been in looks, it was clear that she was a Velaryon at heart. She spoke of the sea and sailing with such reverence it almost made the other men’s sayings on the matter pale in comparison. She talked about how she didn’t care whether the lord she married loved her or she loved him, as long as she could be in a keep by the sea where she could swim and sail, she’d be happy. 

Rhaenys was able to make the acquaintance of Lady Velaryon as well, who proved invaluable at helping her navigate the long and confusing halls of Driftmark. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I got myself lost the first few weeks I lived here,” Lady Velaryon had said, and she and Rhaenys had laughed and laughed over her stories.

Lady Lysandra Velaryon had been born a Celtigar not far from Driftmark. She’d known her husband in their youths but they’d detested each other for some reason that neither of them remembered now. Against their wishes, they were betrothed and wed when she was ten-and-six and he was ten-and-eight. Both families had wanted something from the other: House Velaryon wanted access to House Celtigar’s trade connections with the cities of Slaver’s Bay, and House Celtigar wanted access to the Lyseni bank that Lord Lucerys’s mother’s family controlled. 

She couldn’t help but see a slight similarity between her own situation and Lady Velaryon’s. 

Though thankfully, she and Monford didn’t detest each other. In fact, over the next few days before their forthcoming nuptials, they began to bond more and more. They both shared the same tastes in books and poetry, as well as a love for the harp, though neither could play very well. Though their dynamic was more friendly than anything, she knew that being friends was what one should aspire for in a marriage such as theirs. 

“Monford,” she’d asked him, the day before their wedding. “Did you…know my parents?”

Monford blinked in surprise at the question, though he recovered quickly and nodded. “Yes, I-I did. Not very well, mind you, but I’d been to court a few times with my father and met them all there.” 

She kept pace with him as they walked about the battlements of Driftmark’s outer walls, eagerly awaiting him to continue.

He seemed to catch on and hastily cleared his throat. “I knew your father better than your mother, but the few times I’d met Elia she was the picture of grace and kindness.” 

Rhaenys smiled, the image she had of her mother had become so much less clear as the years wore on that from time to time it was nice to have her memory refreshed. “Yes, that sounds like her—at least, from what I remember, and what my uncles have told me.” 

Monford gave her a small smile before they continued their walk in silence. 

“And my father?” She heard herself ask.

He frowned. “Your father was always a mystery to me. He was perfectly kind and courteous whenever I met him, but he had this…sadness to him. I can’t quite explain it, but, you could feel it whenever he walked into a room.” 

Rhaenys nodded, knowing perfectly well what he meant. “Yes, I remember that. Whenever I think of him, I always remember how terribly sad he looked. Still, I don’t truly know how to feel about him.” 

Monford nodded, looking out at the vast expanse of sea to their right. “It’s only natural, given how much time has passed.” 

Rhaenys shook her head. “It’s not that, I know how I feel about my mother, even after all this time. But…my father, what he did… _He left us to die_.” She didn’t think she’d said the last part aloud, but knew otherwise when she looked up at Monford only to see a sympathetic look on his face.

“I can’t pretend to know what your father was thinking,” He said, matter-of-factly. “I think we can both agree he was an extremely flawed man. But the one time I saw him with you, there was no doubt in my mind that he loved you. Perhaps in a strange, unconventional sense, but I do believe he did.”

She furrowed her brow, the response having stunned her for two reasons. “You saw me? Before…everything?” 

A small smile crept onto his face. “The last time I came to court was for your second birthday. I was ten-and-two then. I was in Maegor’s holdfast, as my father was having tea with your grandmother, and I saw Prince Rhaegar, carrying you on his back and pretending to be a dragon.”

Rhaenys couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of the serious, somber man she’d known as her father carrying her around and acting like a dragon. “Why?”

“You asked him to,” he replied, grinning broadly now. “I believe the words, _‘I’m Queen Rhaenys, go Meraxes, go!’_ were used.” 

She began to laugh outright, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “I—I can’t believe that happened. What did you think?” She asked, raising her eyebrow at him. 

“I thought you were hilarious,” He said, giving her a soft smile that caused a strange sensation in her stomach. 

After she recovered from her giggles, she unconsciously grabbed hold of his arm—much to his surprise—and put her hands in his larger, calloused ones. 

“Thank you,” she told him, seriously. “I—I can’t pretend like that answers all my questions or definitively reveals how I’m truly meant to feel about him, but…it helps. Thank you.” 

Monford lifted up her hand to his mouth and gave it a very courtly kiss, and she couldn’t help but observe how afterward he was blushing just as hard as she was. 

He cleared his throat, seeming a bit flustered by his own daring. “O-Of course. Any time, Deria.” 

“It’s Rhaenys,” she replied, almost unconsciously. “When—when we’re alone, I mean, and there’s surely no one there. You can call me Rhaenys.” 

He made a show of looking around the empty battlements. “Rhaenys,” he repeated, smiling a little. “It suits you better, I think.” 

They continued on their walk after that, and she couldn’t help but feel how much better she felt about her wedding tomorrow than she had a week prior. 


	5. Oberyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn plots with his brother and Lucerys, and a wedding takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my friends asked me who I see Lucerys as and I have just one answer: Silver-haired Ralph Fiennes.

The crashing of the waves against the rocks below was what woke him that morning, and Oberyn had to stifle a groan of annoyance so as not to wake the lovely creature he brought to his bed last night. 

A serving girl—Daella, Daena, Dyalla? One of those. 

He lifted himself from his bed with the catlike grace that had always been so natural to him—and made him such a deadly warrior—and fetched a flagon of wine to nurse the hangover from his overindulgence the previous night. 

Fighting fire with fire seemed optimal this morning. 

He downed the goblet he poured for himself in almost one swallow, then sighed in frustration when its effects weren’t immediate. 

Who was he fooling? No amount of wine would be able to erase the fact that his niece was getting married today, and he would leave this place, for the first time in ten years, without her. 

Doran had tried to console him, saying that it was necessary, that the gods themselves had blessed this union. 

_Fuck the Gods._

Of course, Oberyn knew that it was necessary in order to enact their plans, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. True, Monford was a good enough lad—though he wasn’t sure he’d ever think anyone good enough for his little niece—but it still made him feel odd to leave her here with these silver-haired strangers. 

He’d left another beautiful dornish girl with silver-haired strangers almost twenty years ago. 

Oberyn shook his head, batting such thoughts away—Rhaenys would never suffer Elia’s fate as long as he walked this earth. And Driftmark was a much safer place to be than King’s Landing was for Elia, with much saner company to boot. 

The door behind him opened, revealing his wife of ten years, a scoff escaping her plump lips as soon as she caught sight of the girl tangled in his sheets. 

“This one’s at least prettier than the one from three days ago,” she said, and he could just _hear_ the smirk in her voice.

“That one was not my fault, it was the _wine_.” Oberyn shuddered at the thought of the heavyset, unibrowed wet nurse he’d taken to bed a few nights prior. 

“Then you might consider laying _off it,_ ” she took the cup from his hand, and although a protest was about to escape his lips, there was a challenge in her raised eyebrow that told him not to push his luck. 

He was a master with a spear and hundreds of dangerous, rare poisons—yet it was his slender Dayne wife who didn’t weigh nine stone soaking wet that always managed to stop him in his tracks. 

Oberyn _did_ groan in annoyance this time, though thankfully his bedmate was a heavy sleeper.

Ashara clucked her tongue at him, almost maternally, and went to his chest to set out his clothes for the day— _definitely_ maternally.

“I-I’m not Morgan!” he said, incredulously. “I can pick out my own damned clothes, thank you.” 

She scoffed. “By the way you’re swaying on your feet right now, you’ll come to breakfast wearing that poor serving girl’s woolen dress.” She took out a doublet and matching pants, shoving them in his arms, “Here, wear these.” 

Ashara made to leave the room, but he grabbed hold of her arm before she could. She spun around to face him, a question in her eyes. 

“Why don’t you stop focusing on what I should be wearing, and start focusing on what I should not?”

Much to his chagrin, she rolled her eyes as she always did whenever he brought up that proposal. 

“Oberyn, _let it go_ ,” She said, patting him on the arm. “We spent one night together ten years ago when we were both lost in grief and pain. You gave me the loveliest son in the whole world, and for that, I’ll forever be grateful—but for Gods’ sakes, move on.” 

“But I _can’t_ ,” he replied, his voice sounding far whinier than he’d allow it to when sober. “It was the best night of my life, Ashara.” 

And it truly was. Gods she was just a volcano of passion—it had gone on for hours, the whole night. Slow, passionate lovemaking that left him so spent he couldn’t get out of bed for two days. _Seven hells_ , he was surprised there weren’t fifty Morgans running around from that night alone.

“I wonder what Ellaria has to say about that?” 

“When I told her all she asked was if you could join us sometime.” 

Ashara rolled her eyes, shaking her head fondly. “Of course she did. Well, unfortunately for you, that won’t be happening anytime soon—so get dressed! Our daughter’s getting married today!” 

With a chaste kiss on the cheek, she exited the room. 

As Oberyn stared at the clothes she picked out for him, he couldn’t help but smirk when he remembered her words. 

_Anytime soon._

“She didn’t say never,” he said, his voice almost sing-song.

* * *

Breakfast was a dull occasion, made worse by the fact that Ashara made him drink a bitter concoction to cure his hangover, and he had to listen to Morgan and his sisters blathering on and on about the wedding. He loved how spirited his children were, but on mornings when his head hurt like all hell, he had half a mind to send his daughters to the silent sisters. 

Thankfully, he had an excuse to leave when Areo Hotah went to fetch him to meet Doran in the gardens. He stood up, gave his apologies to his family, and followed his brother’s sworn shield out of their rooms and to a garden in Driftmark’s great courtyard, where he was met with Doran and a rather unexpected guest, flanked by two of his own household guard. 

“Lucerys,” he greeted the Velaryon lord as casually as ever, though there was a question in his tone. 

“Oberyn,” he nodded back, turning to his elder brother. “Prince Doran and I were just discussing the children’s marriage…among other things, and we thought it pertinent to include you.” 

Realization washed over his face, and he gave them both a slow nod. Oberyn knew just what those ‘other things’ were. 

Lucerys turned to his two guards, dismissing them with a haughty snap, and Oberyn watched in amusement as they scattered like dogs. 

“Now,” he said, once the guards had cleared the area. “Shall we?” 

They began their walk through the gardens, Areo Hotah pushing Doran along as he and Lucerys spoke. 

“Two guards trailing after you in your own home, my Lord Velaryon?” Oberyn said, smirking. “Isn’t that a bit of overkill?” 

Lucerys parted his lips in a thin smile. “One can never be too safe, my prince.”

Oberyn scoffed. “You and Doran must get along famously.” 

“Cautiousness is an underrated trait with you, brother,” Doran spoke up, raising an eyebrow. “But without it, none of us here would be alive to witness this beautiful union, would we?”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment of the point. “Perhaps.” 

“Anyhow, it is not this beautiful union I wanted to discuss with the both of you—but another.” 

Oberyn spun around to face the Lord of Driftmark, his eyes wide with hope and a tinge of bloodlust. “Do you mean— _now_?”

Doran shook his head silently, and Lucerys followed suit. “Gods, you and Viserys really need to learn patience. Not now, or anytime soon—but you know as well as I do that the princess and Monford’s marriage means that the stage is set for it to happen.” 

He looked away, slightly disappointed that their revenge would have to wait yet again, but chastened by the fact that Lucerys’s words rung true. After Rhaenys was carried off to bed tonight—and gods be damned if anyone thought to take liberties during that blasted ceremony—there would be no turning back. 

“So when?” Oberyn asked them both. 

This time it was Doran who replied. “There’s a reason we haven’t yet made overtures to them, Oberyn. The Tyrells are loyal to no one but themselves, and not only do the fat flower and his harridan of a mother positively detest you for crippling their heir,” He leveled Oberyn with a glare, though the younger man simply shrugged. Willas had more than forgiven him for the incident, and the only person the fat flower had to blame for his son’s affliction was himself—who in the Gods’ name would enter their eleven-year-old son into a tourney? “But there is also a rumor going around that I like not.” 

“And what rumor is that?” 

“That Mace Tyrell wants his precious Margaery for Prince Joffrey.” 

Oberyn sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth. If the Tyrells had queenly ambitions for their daughter, it would be extremely hard to convince them to settle for their heir wedding a princess instead—particularly because they would still have to wait a long while for a Tyrell queen, as Lucerys’s not yet born granddaughter was to be the queen of Viserys and Arianne’s not-yet-born son. 

“That is most unfortunate for us,” Oberyn replied. 

“Yes,” Lucerys spoke, examining his fingernails for nonexistent grime. “Mind you—the union is not by any means a certainty, I see Ned Stark’s eldest girl as being more likely considering the King’s love for the Starks and his contempt for the Tyrells, but it remains a very real possibility, which is why we must be prepared to convince them otherwise.” 

“And how would you go about doing that?” 

Doran and Lucerys exchanged a look, and Oberyn sighed. _Pity one of them wasn’t born a maiden, these scheming bastards were so clearly made for each other,_ he thought. 

“My younger brother’s betrothal to Desmera Redwyne has been finalized. That is already a significant blow to the Tyrells’ prospects of siding with the stags. The Redwyne fleet makes up the vast majority of the Reach’s naval power, and without them, the whole of their coast will be vulnerable, particularly by the ironborn.” 

“And what are you going to do?” Asked Oberyn. “The Greyjoys, for all we may jape about them, are not dogs that you can sic on someone. They are wild and extremely unpredictable.” 

“Which is why I plan to bring them into the fold,” Lucerys replied evenly. 

“How?” 

“Marriage.” 

Oberyn scoffed. “I think you’ve run out of relatives to auction off, old friend,” He hid a smirk at the scowl the quip garnered from Lucerys. “So once again, I ask you—how?”

The Lord of Driftmark sighed, shaking his head. “At first I thought to offer Balon my Laena for his heir, Theon, though I ended up not sending the offer as her hand is surely more valuable than that, not to mention she’s done nothing to deserve being sent off to those miserable shit-stained rocks.” He cleared his throat, “So, I wrote to my sister. Her daughter Carina is only a few years younger than the boy, she’s half-Velaryon as well as a Dayne by birth and would be considered a suitable match for a future lord of the iron islands. It took quite a lot of convincing, but an agreement—tentative that it may be—has been reached between us. Carina and Theon Greyjoy have been unofficially betrothed, to wed once the Starks and the crown decide his time at Winterfell is at an end, or Balon dies, which could be years yet. To further mollify my sister and Lord Dayne, I’ve offered to cover her dowry in full, at no expense to them, as a gift for my dear niece.”

“And the dowry is…?”

“Fifty finely crafted Velaryon ships—as well as the girl’s weight in gold _and_ her weight in silver.” 

Oberyn was sure his mouth was hanging open. “You can’t be _that_ wealthy as to spare that amount for a niece you’ve never met?”

Now Lucerys was smirking, the arse. “Rest assured, old friend, I can. Rhaemond may be dimmer than a burned-out candle when it comes to westerosi politics, but when it comes to negotiating trade alliances with foreigners the man has a gift. But, as I was saying, with the threat of the Greyjoys at their door and the Redwynes forced into neutrality, the Tyrells will have far more reason to accept our offer.” 

Doran spoke then, his voice thoughtful. “Don’t the ironborn have a rather…unorthodox way of choosing their successors? Theon’s position would not be secure, especially considering that his being raised on the mainland by their perceived enemies will endear him little with the ironborn lords.”

Lucerys sneered. “Aye, the kingsmoot. I wouldn’t worry on that front, my prince. Tis little more than a pathetic ritual that only serves to make those lackwits feel as if they’re special—there may be some grumbling, but with the weight of the crown behind him, Carina’s considerable dowry, as well as the fact that he’s Balon’s last son, they’ll accept him, however begrudgingly. They’d be idiots not to.”

“Never underestimate the idiocy of the iron islands, Lucerys.” 

The Lord of Driftmark nodded his head at that. “Aye, it’d be foolish to place too much faith in them to side with us, and I'm more than prepared should they not—though that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have a plan.” 

Oberyn nodded back, considering the point. “Do you plan to tie yourself to the Reach any further? Or will you look towards the other kingdoms?” 

“That depends,” Lucerys said, his voice soft as he observed a flower growing out of a crack in the stone floor. “I’ve gotten many offers for Laena from all over. The Manderlys, Hightowers, the Lannisport Lannisters, even old Walder Frey sent me a request for her hand last year.” He reached for the flower as if to pluck it out of the ground, but appeared to change his mind at the last minute. “Loathe as I am to gift such an abhorrent family like the Hightowers with my only daughter, tying Oldtown to us would give us all the leverage we needed to secure the Reach beyond a shadow of a doubt for Viserys, princess for Willas or not.” 

Oberyn smiled as Lucerys spoke of the Hightowers with such contempt. The biggest reason for the fall of House Velaryon in wealth and stature had been the results of Alicent Hightower’s ruthless campaign against Driftmark during the dance of dragons. Their trade posts were decimated, their fleet destroyed, and all of the treasures Corlys Velaryon had brought home from his voyages had been carried away during the Sack of High Tide. 

_Clearly, I’m not the only one who holds grudges,_ he thought wryly. 

“However, the Vale strikes me as a… _curiosity_. Jon Arryn is an old man, his days are numbered. When he dies, either his insane wife or his sickly son will take his place. The boy, from what I’ve heard, will most like not live to see manhood, and when he goes, as will Lysa. That leaves Jon Arryn’s great-nephew to inherit: Harrold Hardyng. A boy with no connections to the Starks or Tullys, who can be influenced to fight for our king or at the very least stay neutral.” 

“You would wed your daughter to him?” Doran asked, and Oberyn could see a satisfied glint in his eyes at this plan. 

“Mayhaps. I would, of course, have to be sure his ascension is as secure as it seems, and even then perhaps it wouldn’t be worth only the _potential_ of adding the Vale to our ranks if we could secure the Reach without a doubt, but it would not hurt any of us to investigate further into this matter.”

Doran nodded sagely to that, and Oberyn found himself doing the same. 

“Now, Prince Doran, you have word from our exiled Kingsguard, I hear?” 

His older brother nodded. “Yes, the false dragon is becoming quite a swordsman under their tutelage, so good that they speak of naming him to the Kingsguard when he comes of age.” 

Oberyn had heard about the pillow-boy acting in Viserys’s place from Arthur’s letters to Ashara. He seemed an interesting sort, and from the way Arthur spoke of him he was a kind, dutiful lad who was eternally grateful to them and the prince for rescuing him from a life of working in the Lyseni brothels. 

“If he is indeed as fine a swordsman as they say, I don’t see why not,” said Lucerys, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I think it’s quite suitable, really. He acted as the prince in order to protect him, now he gets to protect him as his sword. Tell them to keep up their training. Something tells me they won’t have to wait much longer to return.” 

“Of course,” replied Doran. 

“So—it really is all coming together, isn’t it?” Said Oberyn, staring out at the vast expanse of the impossibly blue sea from the pavilion where they stood. 

“Yes,” replied Doran, turning his head to meet Oberyn’s eyes from where he sat. “Soon, Oberyn. We will have our vengeance.” 

Oberyn nodded grimly at his brother, and though the sounds of the waves were loud, they weren’t loud enough to keep him from hearing Lucerys’s quiet reply. 

“And I will have mine.”

* * *

Contrary to many, if not all the castles south of the neck, Driftmark did not have a sept. There were surely septons and septas educating the children and feeding the poor, but they congregated Gods know where.

No, Driftmark had something entirely different. 

The Velaryons had come over to Westeros well before the Doom of Valyria, and though they weren’t dragonlords, they were a family of some renown in the empire due to the trade networks they established between Valyria and other kingdoms. So when they arrived on the shores of the barren island of Driftmark, they constructed not a sept, but a temple for the Gods of Old Valyria that many said they never truly abandoned. 

And from the clearly painstaking carving, chiseling, and architectural skills that went into its construction, along with the almost immaculate condition that it was kept in to this day, Oberyn was inclined to believe them. 

There were statues of each God, ones that Oberyn had never seen or even heard of before, positioned throughout, each one made of black marble streaked with bronze. The temple itself was circular, unlike the septs built with seven walls in mind for the seven gods. The walls, unlike the statues, were white marble, and its dome was nothing short of gargantuan, surely reaching as high if not higher than the Great Sept of Baelor's. The dome was coffered, though if one looked closely they could see individual scenes from stories of their Gods carved lightly into each square.

As Oberyn stood observing this building in amazement, he felt a pull on his arm and looked to see Rhaenys staring at him with confusion. 

_Oh_ , he thought. _Right_. 

He was here to give his niece away. 

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he gave Rhaenys a reassuring smile, or what was meant to be one, and began walking her down to the other end of the temple where Monford and a Septon stood at a statue of Balerion, according to the inscription on the pedestal—the God of Fire and Blood. 

_It would appear the mystery of where the Targaryen words come from is no more._

When they got to the end of the temple, Oberyn looked down at his niece—still a girl, no matter how much this blasted country tried to claim otherwise—and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 

“You look so like your mother,” he whispered in her ear, hating the way his voice caught on the last word. “And I know she’s smiling down on you right now. Though you may not truly have my name, you have my blood—and I will always look after you, married woman or not.” 

When he pulled away, he found tears were filling her eyes, making their violet color even more haunting, and he gave her hand one last squeeze before making his way to the gallery. 

He found a seat in between his wife and Lord Velaryon’s daughter Laena, and though his niece was about to get married he couldn’t help but ask her a question, as he needed to take his mind off of this damn wedding. 

“Lady Laena?” He whispered to her. 

She turned her gaze on him, her eyebrow raised in a manner eerily reminiscent of her father. “Yes, Prince Oberyn?”

“There is a septon there, but this is clearly a Valyrian temple. How does any of this work?” 

She smiled kindly, definitely _not_ reminiscent of her father. “This is a valyrian temple, but for all intents and purposes, it is treated as a sept by the septon and septas assigned to Driftmark.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, one eye on the ceremony happening, and one eye on Laena. “Some tolerant septons and septas these must be.”

Laena nodded, her eyes now trained on her brother as he removed Rhaenys’s maiden cloak—a speared sun displayed on the outside, but a red dragon sewn on the inside, per Lady Velaryon’s request. “They must be, elsewise they’d be hard-pressed to find work here.” 

“Does your family keep the seven or these Gods, my lady?” 

She frowned, thoughtfully. “I’d say a queer mixture of the two—Our weddings are officiated by septons with some customs retained from a wedding ceremony of the faith, but they have many Valyrian customs to them.”

“Like what?” Oberyn asked. 

“Like that,” Laena said, pointing subtly to her brother and Rhaenys, and Oberyn watched in shock as Monford cut Rhaenys’s open palm with a knife—to which she let out a hiss of pain, and then in even more shock as she did the same to him. The two then joined their hands, squeezing them together over a bowl of burning coals in between them, the sound of the drops of blood sizzling echoing throughout the cavernous temple.

“As for other religious traditions,” she continued breezily, as if she hadn’t also just witnessed two people cutting their hands open and clasping them together over a fire. “I’d say we pray to both, though I personally find myself coming to this temple for the gods it was built for more often than I do the gods who have taken up residence in it. Monford too, I think.” 

“And your parents?” Oberyn asked in an effort to take his mind off of the sight of Monford laying a kiss on his niece’s lips. 

“Mother’s family is also Valyrian, but they converted long ago so she keeps to the seven, and the only thing Father believes in is himself.” 

Oberyn snorted—this one clearly inherited her father’s dry wit. 

Sadly, no amount of dry wit could wash away the sadness at the sight of the newly married couple standing with each other as everyone in the gallery clapped. 

This was it. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was now Rhaenys Velaryon. 

* * *

The wedding feast was a surprisingly joyous affair, though that could’ve been because Oberyn had drunk a flagon of wine and was well on his way to drinking two. 

There were musicians from Lys in the great hall, beautiful silver-haired purple-eyed creatures singing beautiful old wedding songs from Old Valyria. 

For all the Targaryen’s love of reminding people they were the blood of the dragon, it would appear that the Velaryons were the only ones to whom it meant anything in terms of tradition. They kept the old valyrian gods, they sang the songs of the empire, ate its food. Rhaegar and Elia’s wedding was as dull and traditionally Westerosi as one could get, and from the sound of it, so were all the others before. 

Oberyn turned to see Arianne eyeing something—or _someone_ , more likely—hungrily beside him. When he looked to see who or what it was he almost spit out his drink. 

_Viserys_. 

“Is that truly Lord Velaryon’s bastard?” She whispered to him, and it took all the sobriety Oberyn could gather to keep from laughing. 

“Yes,” he replied, evenly as he could. 

She frowned, worrying her lip. “He must take after his mother—he’s far prettier than his father.” 

“Lucerys is a handsome man,” Oberyn said, and though he had no idea why he was defending the Lord of Driftmark’s looks to his niece, it was true nonetheless. Had Lucerys shown any of Oberyn’s own inclinations, he would have gladly taken him to his bed. 

_He’s wound so tightly,_ Oberyn thought. _He must be a_ volcano _in the bedroom, perhaps—_

Oberyn shook off any thoughts of seducing the uptight lord— _Gods_ , he needed to stop drinking. 

“True enough,” Arianne said, nodding in agreement. “But he’s handsome in a more striking way. His bastard isn’t—he’s _pretty_.” She popped a grape into her mouth, somehow making that mundane act seem seductive. “I want him.”

_Wait a few years,_ he thought. _You’ll have him for the rest of your life then._

“What?” Asked Arianne, seeming startled. 

_Fuck me, I said that out loud._

“Nothing, Ari,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “A bit too much wine, I think.”

She eyed him strangely, before letting out a chuckle. “Yes, _definitely_ too much.”

He felt his arm being pulled up, and when he turned around Ashara was there, motioning for him to stand up. 

“It’s time,” she said, and those words alone sobered him. 

The bedding. 

He stood up from his chair swiftly, before making his way to Rhaenys, who was already being lifted up into the air by a crowd of lords, a look of utter terror on her face. 

Oberyn met her eyes and gave her a reassuring look, before getting behind the crowd quickly and loudly informing the lords, “Any man caught taking liberties will be going to his bed a eunuch.”

Thankfully, they heard him and proceeded to go about undressing Rhaenys as they carried her as delicately and properly as they could. Though he could still see she was trembling, the fear in her appeared to lessen whenever she looked back to see Oberyn, his hand on his knife, ready to defend her from any overzealous lords. 

_Gods, she’s just a girl,_ he thought, looking at her shaking form as the lords lowered her onto the bed, politely wishing her health and happiness as they exited the room. 

Not far behind them, Monford appeared, also naked as the day he was born, atop a crowd of ladies who seemed far more raucous than the men who’d carried Rhaenys. 

They threw him onto the bed, making the bawdiest of jests as they exited the room, and though he was worried for Rhaenys, he couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer creativity of a few of them as the door of their chambers closed in front of him. 

As the crowd left, however, and he was alone in front of the doors, the smile on his face died. 

“Gods help you, girl,” he said sadly, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “You’re on your own for this one.”

Shaking his head, he turned and left, making his way back to the Great hall. 

Something told him he was going to need far more wine tonight. 

* * *

When in the morning he woke, yet again, to the sounds of the waves crashing, he turned to the other side of the bed, bleary from sleep, when he saw a curtain of raven hair beside him. One that was more than familiar. 

When he lifted it, the smile that was on his face could have lit up the sun. 

_Ashara_. 

Knowing she was a light sleeper, he tried his best to not make much noise as he (unsuccessfully) attempted to get out of bed. 

When he heard her mumble quietly, he knew he’d failed. 

“Oberyn?” She said, her voice slurred. 

“Yes, Ashara?” He turned around, giving her his winning smile. 

She took one look at him, and another at the blankets that surrounded them, sighed in exasperation, and said three words: _“Oh, fuck me.”_

“I believe I already did,” Oberyn couldn’t help but say, and he didn’t even mind it when she smacked him upside the head.  
Groaning, she stood from the bed, quickly grabbing a robe and walking out of the room, mumbling curses to herself in annoyance.

He would’ve followed her, but, as with the first time he had shared a bed with Ashara, he couldn’t feel his damn legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! Next is from the POV of our favorite soft boi Monford.  
> Comments are greatly appreciated, would love to hear everyone's thoughts!


	6. The Seahorse And The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monford reflects on his new marriage, whilst Rhaenys learns from an old one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so ya know, I can't write smut to save my life, so don't expect any lol. I would probably write it awfully and I also just have no desire to, just isn't for me, no disrespect to those who do read/write it!

He was a married man now. 

Yet Monford didn’t truly feel all that different. 

Well, that was a lie. Right now he felt like some sort of horrible monster out of a storybook because his poor wife—Gods that felt strange to think of—was trembling like a leaf beside him. 

The ceremony had gone well—both of them. The truth was that they’d been married yet again an hour after the ceremony at the temple in father’s solar. Father and Septon Garth had thought it necessary as Rhaenys’s false name of Deria would be used during the ceremony at the temple, which could lead to their enemies questioning the validity of the marriage, so they’d wed using her real name with father as witness right after the wedding. 

The feast in the great hall also seemed to go well. Everyone from the Dornish lords and ladies invited, to the various Crownlander lords who turned up to see the wedding of the Velaryon heir looked to be having a wonderful time. There looked to be not one cheek in the hall not flushed with wine and laughter. 

Well, except for father. Not that he was unhappy—as many people thought father to be some emotionless other—but father didn’t partake in drinking. He definitely didn’t dance either, though that wasn’t by choice, as his crippled arm prevented him from doing so properly. 

No, father wasn’t drinking, though Monford could definitely tell he was happy. He and his mother were sat together, and they looked to be having a good time, smiling and laughing with each other. He knew that their marriage wasn’t one of romantic love—few highborn marriages were—but he knew that they had grown to dearly love each other as friends over the years. Father always sought mother’s counsel before making a decision, and mother knew that father would always be by her side. 

Monford hoped that he and Rhaenys could at least grow to be friends—as it would cut out all of this damned awkwardness between the two of them, but for all his hopes, she was still so bloody _young_. Sure, they’d spoken some with each other and had some pleasant conversations, but the cautious, wary mood between them both hadn’t changed. What kind of a friendship can a man of four-and-twenty have with a girl of four-and-ten? What kind of a _marriage_ can a man of four-and-twenty have with a girl of four-and-ten?

He didn’t know. Mayhaps they were doomed. Mayhaps she’d beg Viserys to send her back to Dorne the second the war was won. Viserys would be sympathetic, but father surely would be opposed to it. And then Viserys would reject her pleas, on account of his debt to father, and she would hate him and hate viserys and hate them all and one day she’d put herself out of her misery and jump off a tower and _Oh gods this was too much to bear._

_No, I can do this,_ Monford thought to himself. _We can do this. I just need to pretend she’s three years older—YES! Just do that, then put her age out of my mind entirely._

Monford turned to look across the table at his new wife, sat with a rigidity and tension that would make even Stannis Baratheon weep with envy. 

“So, Princess,” Monford said, and she turned her head to look at him, blinking as if surprised he’d deign to speak to her. 

“Yes, my lord?” 

_She has such lovely eyes,_ Monford thought. _Violet, like grandmother’s—like dany’s, and oh Gods, she’s dany’s niece. My wife is the niece of my little sister who’s actually an exiled princess and my bastard brother who’s actually the rightful king of Westeros, and on top of it all those two are actually brother and sister, and gods this is so damned strange. Curse Viserys! Curse Father! Curse Robert Baratheon! Curse Mad Aerys for being so bloody mad and causing all this bloody madness!_

Monford shook his head, with a vehemence that seemed to slightly confuse his new wife, but he cleared his throat and did his best to speak as if he _wasn’t_ having an existential crisis.

“I hear you like sailing,” he said, smiling in a manner meant to be reassuring. 

She nodded, demurely. “Yes, my lord, I’m quite fond of sailing. As fond as one can be when they’ve only gone out twice, one of those being the trip here.” 

“Oh, but we must remedy that, Princess. I shall take you sailing again sometime—only if you want to, of course.”

She gave him a small smile. “I would like that, my lord.” 

_Must she insist on calling me my lord?_ Monford thought, dismally. Then again, he _was_ calling her by her princess title an awful lot, but that was only because it was so strange to call her Deria. The name really didn’t suit her, not like Rhaenys. Rhaenys sounded soft and sweet and poetic, and Rhaenys was a soft and sweet and poetic girl. Deria was rough, particularly when most dornish names were normally so lyrical and lovely. Deria was a name that suited a girl who brought a giant skull to the capital, Rhaenys was a name for the girl who rode her dragon and sang sweet songs. 

“Nervous, Princess?” 

The voice that asked this didn’t belong to him, or father—it was too deep and self-satisfied in its tone. 

_Bloody Rhaemond._

Rhaenys blinked, nonplussed. “My lord?” 

“For the bedding,” Rhaemond elaborated from his place next to the princess, and it took everything Monford had not to hit his head on the table in embarrassment. 

Rhaenys blushed furiously, her eyes widening in slight terror at the prospect of sharing a bed with him, which did nothing to boost his confidence. 

“I—er, I—I—I,” 

“You, you, you,” Rhaemond teased, though the glint in his eyes when he looked at her wasn’t one of malice. “Have no fear, my dear, my nephew is the softest touch on this side of the planet. Kind and gentle, almost to the point of being womanish, if you ask me. Why, haven’t you heard of our excursions in YiTi?” 

Monford’s eyes widened in alarm, and he wanted nothing but to clamp his own hand over Rhaemond’s mouth so he couldn’t tell this sodding story. 

“No, my lord?” She turned to Monford as if confused as to what Rhaemond was referring to. 

“Oh, yes,” Rhaemond said, parting his lips in a feral smile. He cleared his throat theatrically, and even father and mother turned to face him. _Oh Gods, they’re going to hear this story—and Laena? Damn it all!_

“You see, when young Monford was but a boy—the tender age of seven-and-ten—we went to YiTi in order to negotiate a trade deal with the emperor. We were hosted in his palace, the grandest man-made structure I have ever seen in my life. Inside this structure, there was something called a harem, an odd sort of brothel which housed all of his concubines. The emperor told us to take our pick, and as young Monford here had never lain with a woman before, I urged him to accept the offer. And so he did. You can imagine how proud I was of my nephew.” 

Monford groaned in despair, putting his head in his hands in order to hide his surely flaming cheeks—and damn it all, now near the entire great hall was listening. 

“So he did it, he laid with the emperor’s concubine. I think her name was, Mei-Feng, or Ji-Lin, or something of the sort.” 

“Mei-Lin,” Monford supplied, miserably. 

Rhaemond snapped his fingers in confirmation. “Yes! That was it—Mei-Lin. Well, though in most cases, a man sleeps with a concubine or whore, has a good time, and leaves her to her business the next day, young Monford had other ideas. You see, after this woman had so thoroughly opened his world, he was convinced he was _in_ _love with her._ ”

A series of chuckles broke out in the great hall, and he even noted Father trying to hide a smile by strategically placing his hand over his chin. 

“Oh, that’s not even the best part,” Rhaemond said, giggling like a child given an extra sweet. “He was so besotted with this woman that he came back to her the next day, asking her to run away with him, saying that he would take her back to his castle and make her _his lady_.”

Now the chuckles grew to outright laughs, and he noticed Mother’s shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth as she hid her face in father’s shoulder, and _Oh Gods—even Rhaenys is giggling now._

Rhaemond put up his arms, theatrically. “ _Mei-Lin! Come sail away with me! How I love you so!_ ”

Monford was sure that Laena’s cackling would be heard from the gates of King’s Landing to the frozen towers of Eastwatch.

“And what did my almost-good-daughter say, Rhaemond?” Father said, and Monford could practically _see_ his grin without looking at him.

“Oh, she broke his heart, of course. And, after he refused to stop begging for her love—his nose.”

The laughter was truly beginning to grate at this point. 

“But why would she deny the opportunity to be a lady?” Dany asked from her seat next to Rhaemond, genuinely curious. 

“Oh, my sweet,” Rhaemond turned to look down at her. “The YiTish emperor’s concubines earn more money in a year than most Westerosi lords see their entire lives. They live in a palace bigger than King’s Landing, their children after them inherit maddening amounts of wealth—why forsake all that to come to this miserable rock and spend her life with a man who falls in love with every woman that so much as shakes his hand?”

Dany did her best to hide her chuckles—bless her—but it was plain to see she was laughing along with everybody. When he turned to Rhaenys, though she was still giggling, there was no malice in her eyes. In fact, there was almost something tender. 

She put her hand over his, as if without thinking. “I think it’s sweet,” she said, her face kind, and _by the Gods,_ he was furious at Rhaemond for pointing this out so accurately because if he didn’t feel he loved her before he sure as hell did now. 

“Thank you,” Monford said, returning her smile. “Though I’m afraid that wasn’t one of my finer moments.” 

“We all have our bad moments.” 

“Oh? How did _your_ YiTish concubine respond when you proposed marriage?”

Rhaenys laughed, and it was so genuine that he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. Things were going so well between them. 

Or, at least, they were—until Father announced it was time for the bedding, the band began playing _The Queen Took Off Her Sandals, The King Took Off His Crown,_ and the smiles on both their faces died. 

“Damn it all,” he muttered, cursing whoever invented this foul ritual. 

Before he knew it, he was being lifted up into the air and manhandled by an assortment of ladies ranging from Dornish nobles to his Celtigar cousins. Their foul japes did nothing to lift his mood, either.

_“With that pretty silver hair, you’d think we’re carrying off the bride and they’re carrying off the groom.”_

_“I hear male seahorses are the ones who carry the babes—I’d advise getting some bigger clothes.”_

_“A loose dress, mayhaps?”_

_“Or a robe?”_

_“Or nothing at all!”_

_“Try not to stare at the sun for too long, Monny, your eyes will melt!”_

_“Think of what else will melt when he lays with her!”_

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of bad jokes and a few hands reaching places they had no rights to reach—he was thrown onto the bed, naked as the day he was born. When finally the door closed, he opened his eyes and turned to look at his wife, who was staring at him wide-eyed, shaking almost violently. 

_Gods, she’s bloody terrified._

He was stunned into silence for a moment at the sheer look of gut-churning fear in her haunting eyes, and he felt awful—so damned awful. He knew this would be difficult, for both of them—but he didn’t expect her to be _afraid_ of him.

“Rhaenys,” he said, softly, the name bittersweet on his tongue. “I know—I know you’re afraid, and that you would rather we didn’t need to go through all this.” He tucked a loose strand of her hair—a medium-toned brown, not like the silver of her father’s or the black of her mother’s—behind her ear, damn near sighing in relief when she didn’t flinch away from him. 

“My lo—Monford,” She breathed, violently batting away what suspiciously looked to be a tear. “I do not find you— _uncomely_ , and you have been good to me.” She cleared her throat, awkwardly. “I just—I’m frightened.” Her voice caught on the last word, making his heart clench. 

“I know,” he said, “And I sympathize. This is…not an _ideal_ situation we find ourselves in,” she laughed slightly at the massive understatement, prompting his lips to turn slightly upward. “But we need to consummate the union in order to make it valid—elsewise our enemies could have grounds to annul it, in order to weaken us. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She shook her head. 

“I promise you—I will do my best to ensure there is as little pain as possible, and if you do not wish to lie with me after this, you need not to. Only once is necessary to make this valid—heirs can wait until Viserys takes the throne.”

She still looked extremely hesitant, but ultimately nodded her consent, and he tried to ignore how miserable she still seemed as he prepared to do his duty. 

A gasp here, a tightening of a jaw there, slight whines of pain and discomfort, and a mercifully quick release later, the union was consummated. 

Rhaenys—thankfully—fell asleep shortly after, giving him a quiet thanks for being so gentle, though all he could see was the water in her eyes. 

Sleep would not come for Monford that night. 

* * *

When the light of the sun began peeking out over the horizon, turning the deep blue sea pink with daylight, he knew it was a suitable time to leave. Quietly, he slipped out of bed in an effort to not wake his soundly asleep wife and began silently dressing—his mind still on the previous night. 

_Gods, he felt sick with himself_. He wished things could have been different, that they could have waited, that father hadn’t insisted on the marriage occurring so soon, that Prince Oberyn hadn’t agreed. But alas, this was the lot they’d been dealt with. He’d had half a mind to simply cut his arm and smear the blood on the bed, but he knew that father would’ve been able to tell. Father knew him much too well, and he could read people much too well. Discovering Monford had faked the consummation of his union would’ve only made him wroth. 

_“You do not need to put an heir in her for a few years yet—and I wouldn’t advise doing so either, as giving birth so young is what ruined her grandmother’s womb in the first place,”_ Father had said, _“But this marriage must be consummated. There cannot be any doubt of this union’s validity. You will do your duty to your house, and she hers.”_

_Will she hate me when she wakes?_ Monford thought, dismally. _Will she resent me for taking her maidenhead? Or worse—will she still be afraid? Gods, I’ll probably deserve it if she’s all three._

He got the answer to his question sooner than he thought as he heard her shuffle around the bed before groaning blearily, and he turned around to see her rubbing her eyes. When she opened them, twin amethysts stared at him, inscrutable. 

After what seemed to be forever, she looked away, and seeming to remember she was still unclothed, brought the blankets tighter to her, bunching them up under her chin. 

“Good morning, my—Rhaenys.”

She gave him a small, awkward, and painfully false smile. “Good morning, Monford.” 

Monford scratched the back of his neck, deeply embarrassed at what he was about to ask, but it would be the height of rudeness not to, and he really was concerned. “Is there still—I understand that—the pain can somewhat…” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “…linger.”

Rhaenys blushed to the tips of her ears in response. “I am…a little sore, though it is nothing too terrible.” 

“I am terribly sorry about that, Rhaenys. I did not mean to hurt you. I…I hope you know that.” 

She frowned, though he could tell that his words meant something to her, however small their effect. “I know. I thank you for being so attentive to my well-being, I do not think most lords would have much cared whether I was hurting or not.” 

He shrugged in response, disliking the way she attempted to comfort him. _I do not deserve it,_ he thought, _I hurt her. She cried._

“I was only doing what any honorable man would do, my princess.” 

“There are not many honorable men in these kingdoms, my lord, so I would thank you regardless.” 

Monford blinked at the surprising amount of steel in her voice, though from the look in her eyes it was not directed towards him. 

“Well then,” he cleared his throat, “If you’d like, I recall my mother invited you to break your fast with her this morning. Tis a bit early, though I’m sure by the time you’re dressed she'll be up—unless you’d wish to sleep some more, of course.” 

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll sleep again, I’ll get dressed.” 

“Well, then—I’ll leave you to it.” 

With an awkward (and unnecessary) bow, he exited the room, sighing in relief at being spared more painfully uncomfortable conversation with his new spouse. 

Time to meet father. 

* * *

Getting dressed was easy enough. Rhaenys never understood why other Westerosi ladies made such a fuss out of it all with maids and the like. Then again, Dornish dresses were typically loose, soft garments that one could slip on and off as easy as a shirt. 

Would she need to wear those painful dresses now? The Velaryon women did not dress like she’d seen reacher women or some of the dornish ladies from the upper marches dress, preferring gowns that could almost be mistaken as dornish were it not for the colors and the slightly more modest form they had to them. Still, she liked her gowns—one of the few things she remembered of mother was how she continued to dress in the dornish fashions even after she’d wed father. She rarely ever donned the styles of the upper kingdoms unless she was attending dinner with grandfather. 

With a shrug, Rhaenys continued putting on her dress—this one was one Ashara had commissioned for her before they’d left, in the Velaryon colors of turquoise and gray, but with a dornish cut to it. 

_“To remind you of your home, the old and the new,”_ she’d said.

When she finished, she brushed her hair and put on the black amethyst hairnet gifted to her by Lady Velaryon. It would have been unseemly not to wear it to break her fast with her goodmother, but she also found she quite liked it. It was not only beautiful, but its colors signaled to her true heritage, the house she’d only got to be a member of for four years before being pushed into orange dresses and golden rings. 

Finally finished, she left the room, realizing with a jolt as soon as she stepped out the door that she was no longer a maid anymore. She was someone’s wife—wedded and bedded. The pain from the bedding still lingered, though it was now little more than a dull ache as opposed to the searing pang of discomfort she’d felt in the moment. Monford had tried his best to make it hurt less, though no matter what when one lost their maidenhead it was bound to hurt at least a little. 

As she walked along the cavernous halls of Driftmark, she thought back to her interactions with her husband. He’d been nothing but kind and gentle in the few instances they’d met, and she truly held nothing against him, though she was still wary. The fact was, she didn’t know him, or his family much, and she’d be left here with no family of her own save Viserys and an aunt who didn’t even know _her own_ identity, let alone Rhaenys’s.

Still, she tried to be optimistic. So far her good family had been nothing but kind to her—and she had taken an immense liking to Lady Velaryon, as well as Monford’s elder sister Laena. The girl had Lord Velaryon’s dry wit, though unlike him she wasn’t anywhere near as unapproachable. 

Arriving at the door to Lady Velaryon’s solar, she knocked and was surprised at how near-instantly the door opened. Greeting her on the other side was the woman herself, silver hair loose in curls down to her waist, as seemed to be the custom on Driftmark, and her smile bright as always. 

“Oh my dear, you look absolutely radiant this morning! Come, come! Take a seat, I’ve had the food prepared especially for you. I know you love lemon cakes, don’t you?” Rhaenys nodded. “Yes, yes, we have plenty of those, not to worry.” 

Both taking their seats, Lady Velaryon launched straight into the conversation without preamble. 

“Tell me, dear, how is the pain?” 

Rhaenys blinked, feeling an intense blush creeping upon her cheeks. “Er—you mean, from the—“

“Yes, yes, from the bedding,” She waved her hands about lazily. “How is it?” 

“Er—better. It still hurts, though it’s mostly gone now. Just a tad uncomfortable.” 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” The older woman replied. “If it still pains you by tomorrow, I’ll give you an ointment, should have it all cleared up in no time.” 

“Er—Thank you, my lady.” 

“Please—it’s Lysandra, darling, or mother. How many times must I mention it to you?

“Yes, of course—Lysandra, pardon me.” 

Lysandra smiled. “Now, how was everything last night?” She leaned in, mischievously. “I trust my son was a perfect gentleman, because if he was anything less, I shall geld him for you.” 

Rhaenys let out a startled laugh. “He was very gentle, my la—Lysandra,” she corrected herself. “Truly, he could not have been more so.” 

Lysandra leaned back, nodding in satisfaction. “I’m glad. I raised a fine boy, dear—I know this, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright on your end.” 

“It is, truly.” 

“Good, now dig in! I’ve had this prepared for you, after all!” 

Rhaenys began tucking into her meal, dutifully, finding she quite liked the assortment of food her goodmother had prepared for her. There was some sort of smoked salmon, smothered with peppers and lime juice, sliced bread with a poached egg served atop it, pomegranate marmalade, and the lemon cakes were some of the best she’d ever had. 

Her goodmother watched her in silence, eyes looking as if she were gazing into the past, and Rhaenys stared back, dumbly. “I—Is there marmalade on my face, my lady?” 

“No,” Lady Velaryon furrowed her brow then, picking up a napkin, “Actually yes,” she wiped at Rhaenys’ face as a mother would, and the younger woman found herself blushing in embarrassment at her careless eating. “But that is not why I was staring dear, pardon me.” 

“Oh,” she replied, shrinking in her seat. “Then—why?”

“I was just reminded of your father,” She said, gazing out the open window across the sea. “You resemble him.” 

Rhaenys furrowed her brow. She’d always been told of her resemblance to her mother by Oberyn and Doran, both stating that she was the image of Elia. But Rhaenys had always known that wasn’t true. She had been told she was beautiful like her mother, but truthfully she didn't think she could compare. Elia Martell had thick raven black curls down to the small of her back, while Rhaenys’s mousy brown hair was a queer middle ground between her parent’s colors. Elia Martell had dark brown, almost black eyes, while she had inherited her father’s somber violet color. Elia Martell had skin that shone like flaming gold, whilst Rhaenys's was plainer, of a lighter olive tone. Still, despite these differences, no one had ever told her she’d resembled her father. The name Rhaegar Targaryen was only ever spoken in Dorne with contempt. 

“Really?” She asked, interest piqued. 

“Oh yes,” Lysandra replied, reaching out with her hand, then touching her face. “You have his jaw—and the same dimple on your chin. Your eyes are of a similar shape and size, though you have your mother’s nose and lips.” 

“Did you know him well, Lysandra?” She found herself asking. 

The Lady of Driftmark shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear. Whenever my husband dragged me to that godsforsaken latrine of a capital, Rhaegar tended to forego all company save for Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent.” She shuddered theatrically as if the very concept of King’s Landing perturbed her. “Though I don’t think anyone truly knew Rhaegar well if you ask me. Save his mother.”

“Did you know her?” 

“Oh yes,” Lysandra said, her pale blue eyes glimmering with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. “I was one of her ladies. Rhaella, I knew quite well. As did my husband.” 

“I _do_ recall seeing Lord Velaryon meet with her quite often—and you, now that I think about it.” Rhaenys said, memories of a younger, more approachable Lord of Driftmark making her grandmothers’ haunted eyes light up with something other than fear as they traded lighthearted jests across the table. She didn't know how she hadn't recognized Lady Velaryon, she hadn't aged much and she was present most of the time she went to see grandmother. Although, Rhaenys's memories of the red keep had become muddled and fragmented with the years—and truth be told, sometimes it was better to forget. 

“They were great friends,” Lady Velaryon confirmed, looking absently at her hands. “He was devastated when she died.” 

_Devastated_? She couldn’t picture the serious, scheming Lord Velaryon being anything other than mildly annoyed, let alone devastated.

“I—I would never have guessed,” Rhaenys spoke in a soft, surprised tone. 

Lysandra smirked. “My husband may seem a cold, unfeeling snake to those who don’t know him, darling—but trust me. Tis often the hardest creatures that have the softest underbellies. Were he as calculating and uncaring as he seems, he would have sent Viserys and Dany across the narrow sea to live out their youth sheltered with some foreign noble, or to starve on the streets if he thought they were of no use to him. Instead, he took them into his home, risking himself and his family, and raised them up as his own. No one does this without love in their hearts.” 

Rhaenys nodded, considering the point. She had never thought of it that way before, though it was true. The Lord of Driftmark had risked everything by taking in the prince and princess, and was willing to put his life on the line to see Viserys on his rightful throne. True, he was not gaining nothing out of this, but was what he saw to gain truly worth all of this trouble—the potential extinction of his house? It was a gamble, to say the least—and Lord Velaryon did not strike her as a man who gambled much. 

“You and him—have…come to love each other then? In your marriage?” Rhaenys asked, her voice filled with hope that her own husband and she might follow the same path. 

Surprisingly, the Lady of Driftmark did not nod or shake her head, instead scrunching up her face in thought. “I have come to love Lucerys, yes...though not in the manner you would think. My heart does not skip a beat whenever he enters a room, I don’t find myself craving his touch every once in a while, nor do I look at him and sigh dreamily like a young maiden. But I love him, nonetheless—as a dear friend, and the father to my children. I can laugh with him, and cry with him, and tell him everything about my day with no hesitation. I understand him in ways no one else does, and he me. I would say we have something queer—less than romance, yet deeper than friendship, something in between. Still, we are happy with one another.” 

Rhaenys nodded thoughtfully, understanding Lady Velaryon’s emotions. She thought that Ashara and Oberyn had something like that, a close friendship that ofttimes sparkled with hints of something more, yet never quite reached it. It wasn’t like the fiery passion between Oberyn and Ellaria, nor the rigid, courtly respect that had unfortunately grown between her uncle Doran and aunt Mellario over the years. Even though the romantic in her hoped for something more, she thought that what Lady Velaryon described didn’t sound bad at all. If she could reach that with Monford, she would be happy, she decided. 

“Although,” Lysandra said, taking Rhaenys’s hand in hers. “My son is not my husband, and you are not me. Lucerys and I have always been pragmatists at heart, while you and Monford have the soul of poets. I know my boy, darling, and I see something there between you. It has perhaps, not reared its head yet, but I’m strangely confident that it will. Just give it time,” she gave her a wink. 

Rhaenys blushed at having been read so effortlessly—it seemed the Velaryons were all quite adept at seeing through people. 

She would have to learn the same, now that she was one of them. Perhaps it would fit her, this new title of Lady Velaryon. She had never felt a true Martell in her life—her cousins were all adept at weaponry, but Rhaenys had shied away from steel as the sounds of it haunted her dreams at night, and all she could hear when two swords met were her mother’s screams and her brother’s cries. Orange and red had always felt like warm colors, but they did not feel like _her_. She wore them to remind herself of her mother, not because they were an expression of her own soul. Black and red were forbidden colors, and though she felt a twinge of longing whenever she saw her real house’s standard in the history books, it was always so distant to her. 

This, however, these blue and green colors, the grey seahorse rampant on the banner, whilst it felt strange and different to her, it was something _new_. Something that had no connotations to either of her pasts, an image that she could use to make something of herself in her own right. She could finally be her own person, no two legacies battling it out for control of her heart. 

With these new banners, Rhaenys realized, she could well and truly _fly_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this perspective from our newlyweds! Please comment and share your thoughts-- cant stress how much your comments make my day, (as well as force me to write faster lmao).


	7. Lucerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucerys speaks with his wife about the future, and with a fellow survivor of Aerys's court about the past.

“You know, I daresay Monford is getting used to the idea of his new wife,” Lysandra said, a quirk to her eyebrows as she stared at the roaring flames in the hearth.

“Really?” Lucerys asked, his own eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, yes. I actually caught them talking today— _willingly_! Can you imagine?”

“It’s not exactly strange,” Lucerys reasoned. “Though you and I took far longer to warm to each other.” 

She scoffed. “Oh, that was completely different. You and I _loathed_ each other when we were wed. Thankfully these two harbored no such feelings.”

Lucerys smiled, silently recalling the times when a much younger and much more juvenile version of the couple currently sitting together couldn’t stand to breathe the same air for one second without going into a shouting match.

“You were quite the sparring partner, you know. I don’t recall a time when I had to come up with more clever insults in my life to counter the barbs you used to throw at me.” 

Lysandra threw her head back and laughed, heartily. “Gods, I don’t even remember what it was that led us to despise each other so.” 

He shrugged. “An early betrothal, combined with some petty disagreement when we were children, most like.” 

Lysandra hummed in agreement, taking a sip from her goblet. 

“I received a missive from Lord Paxter Redwyne today,” Lucerys said, pulling out the opened scroll and handing it over to Lysandra. “It would appear you need to begin packing your best dresses, my lady.” 

“A tourney?” She said, her silver eyebrows raised in surprise as she read the parchment. “At the Arbor? _Gods_ , isn’t this a bit much? The only celebrations I recall when _we_ were betrothed was a small feast at Claw Isle.” 

“Alas, when we were betrothed, both our houses were little more than middling Crownlander nobility whose glory days had passed.” Lucerys took a sip from his own goblet—lemon water, he couldn’t stand the taste of alcohol—and pondered aloud: “The Redwynes are among one of the most powerful houses in the realm. I had thought that we might get young Horas on a ship over here relatively easy, though it would appear the Queen of Thorns wants to get a measure of us.’

“You think it was her?” 

He snorted. “It’s always her.” 

Lysandra scrunched her face up in that way she always did when trying to work out a problem, much to his amusement. “They can’t possibly break the betrothal, can they?”

Lucerys shook his head. “Provided Rhaemond doesn’t make too much of a fool of himself, no. It would be considered a grievous insult, as well as pose a potential blow to our trade relations.” 

She clucked her tongue. “You’re far too hard on poor Rhaemond, you know?” 

Lucerys sighed, rolling his eyes. Lysandra had appointed herself head of the Rhaemond Defense League long ago. She’d wed Lucerys when he was a boy of eight, and he had been the first friend she’d made in Driftmark, both driven by a single mission: Annoy the heir as much as bloody possible. 

“You’re not hard enough on him.” 

“Oh please, you two only butt heads so much because you’re both far more alike than you’d like to admit.” 

He spun his head around to face his her, his face scandalized. “I am—how could you say such a thing?!”

She let out a very unladylike guffaw. “Oh, give it a rest, Lucerys! You’re both far too self-assured for your own good, you love to toy with people, you’re scheming, sarcastic—“

“—I never toy with people!”

She raised an eyebrow, mockingly. “Lord Stannis?”

Lucerys couldn’t help the smile that made it to his lips. The Lord of Dragonstone had proven both remarkably easy and remarkably fun to rile up with little more than false courtesies, as well as the occasional (barely) veiled insult. Still, for all the young lord’s scowling, Lucerys found he strangely respected the man. He was nothing like his oaf of a brother, was dutiful to a fault, just, and a frankly gifted administrator when it came to his lands and people. He may have even been tempted to call him a friend, had it not been for the Lord’s constant attempts to curb Driftmark’s growing power—most of which had failed, though many had succeeded, much to Lucerys’s chagrin—as well as the fact that he thought the day Stannis made a friend was the day the seven hells froze over. 

“That is…entirely different,” he finally replied. 

“Hmph,” her voice was filled with skepticism. “Nevertheless, you are very similar.” 

“I’m nowhere near as reckless as Rhaemond is,” Lucerys supplied, though from the smirk on Lysandra’s face he knew that was the wrong thing to say even before she replied: 

“Oh, yes—and harboring two deposed royals a stone’s throw away from their greatest threat is an incredibly salient decision to make.” 

Lucerys grumbled. “On its face, it may have _seemed_ insane, but you cannot deny that the plan has been frankly ingenious.”

She tipped her head in acknowledgment of the point. “True enough, though you know I had my reservations.” Lysandra stared off into the fire, her blue eyes glimmering with unspoken emotion. “I still have my reservations.” 

The Lord of Driftmark sighed, getting up from his chair with a groan, and taking a seat beside his wife of near three decades. “What is it, Lysandra?” 

The knowing tinge in his voice made her sigh, and she met his eyes. “Do you ever think that…all of this…is…”

“…Completely mad,” he finished. 

“Well, yes, but—“ She exhaled sharply. “Aren’t you ever tempted to just…go on as is?” 

“Some days, perhaps.” Truthfully, Lucerys had no desire for war. He did not enjoy watching villages or cities burn, and the carnage that came along with it. To him, it was a necessary evil, and though he wouldn't hesitate to carry out those orders, it was an evil all the same. “Though you know that there’s no other way for Viserys. As long as the Lannisters and Baratheons remain in power, he is at risk. You can’t very well expect him to live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, living under a false name.” 

“I’m not speaking of Viserys,” She breathed, and Lucerys found himself furrowing his brow in confusion. “Don’t you ever wonder how Dany will react to all of this?”

Truth be told, no, he hadn’t. For the longest time, the matter of Daenerys Targaryen had been nestled somewhere in the back of his mind.

“I can’t say I have."

Lysandra chuckled, though it was humorless. “Not only will she discover that her entire life is a lie, that we aren’t her parents nor even her family, but then she’ll be sold off to a strange man she doesn’t know for an army.” 

Lucerys grimaced—hearing the situation laid out in that manner was troubling, to say the least. “She’ll understand, with time,” he replied, uncomfortably. 

His lady wife turned to him, a hint of desperation in her voice when she replied: “Does she have to?”

“How do you mean?” 

“Does she have to understand? Can’t she…go on believing?” 

He stood from the chair, quickly, as if burned. “You can’t be serious?” 

“Would it truly be so terrible? This house is no longer middling crownlander nobility, Lucerys—we’re the most powerful house in the crownlands, save for the crown itself! Her hand in marriage would still be valuable for the Tyrells, especially with Willas’s condition.” 

Lucerys scoffed. “Those are risks we cannot take, Lysandra. This is war, and it will end with our house either thriving or perishing. We need the reach to win this war quickly, and decisively. For that, we need more than a second daughter from a minor, if wealthy, house.”

“Do not think me blind to your concerns,” he said, when it looked like she was going to speak again. “This will be incredibly difficult for her, I fully understand that. But think of everyone else. Do you truly want to deprive Viserys of his sister forever? Do you truly want a longer, bloodier war, just for the sake of the girl continuing to live a lie?” 

She looked ready to argue again, but then promptly deflated as the truth of his words set in. Viserys may have hid it well, but it was obvious to those who knew who she truly was that it broke his heart every day she continued to live as a Velaryon. Often times, he caught the boy staring at her as if silently begging her to somehow figure it all out. Having her continuing to live the lie would not only harm her, but him as well. 

“I love that girl,” She said, her voice quiet. “As if she were my own.” 

“As do I,” He sat back down next to her, taking her hand in his. “But she isn’t, and she deserves to know that. _Rhaella_ deserves to have her daughter know of her.”

Lysandra sighed, defeatedly. “I hate it when you’re right.” 

He smirked. “Then you must always hate me.” 

* * *

The morning the Dornish party left Driftmark was an appropriately sunny one. Princess Rhaenys was clearly quite saddened by her family’s departure, and whilst Lucerys sympathized, it was high time he devoted his full focus to Driftmark’s affairs—especially in light of the fact that he would be leaving the castle in Monford’s care for the first time in a decade in order to go to some blasted betrothal tourney at the Arbor.

Shockingly, as he’d made no effort to avoid the other Kingdoms, Lucerys realized he had not left Blackwater Bay since he’d fled King’s Landing after the Battle of the Trident. The only two places he’d gone to since had been Sweetport Sound and Dragonstone, both islands firmly in the blackwater. Of course, perhaps it was to be expected—Siding with Aerys until it was plain the end was near had all but got House Velaryon banished from court, and when King Robert had graced them with a visit to Driftmark when touring the Crownlands it had been a tense affair, not helped by his incessant need to remind everyone of how he killed Rhaegar every five seconds. Lucerys may have been working to undermine the boy’s position as heir, but he’d never wished to see him _dead_ —he was there the day he was born, for Gods’ sakes. 

The Redwyne visit would no doubt be a first for many. It would be his first time leaving Driftmark in years, as well as Laena’s first time at a proper court. He smiled thinking of his daughter then, more than sure she’d do well there. While she may have been a woman, Lucerys had never been of the idiotic belief that women should shy away from politics or strategy, and he’d taught Laena everything he taught Monford about how to navigate the treacherous hellholes that were Westerosi courts. Needless to say, she would be more than prepared. Rhaemond, perhaps, less so, as Westerosi politics had never interested him much, though surely his riches and status would be enough to get him through. 

Since their banishment, he’d tasked Rhaemond with making strategic trade alliances abroad since the mainland wanted little to do with them, something his brother—with his restless nature and jovial disposition—had taken to eagerly. The voyages of Rhaemond and Monford had been something that Lucerys had been planning and raising funds for years, even before he’d ascended as Lord. During Aerys’s reign, he’d been able to use his old friend’s paranoia against him, ingratiating himself with him so much so that the King had approved every trade charter extraordinarily beneficial to Driftmark he had put in front of him. His wealth doubled, and though the Baratheons had naturally made those old charters null and void after the rebellion, the connections made and the wealth earned because of them had made their mark. He built Rhaemond a fleet, gave him a ridiculous amount of gold, and tasked him with doing what he did best: ingratiating himself with foreigners. His brother may have been as useless as a sack of flour with a hole in it when it came to Westerosi politics, but Rhaemond shined like a polished gold-piece in foreign courts. 

So, Monford and Rhaemond went. Spending four years in the courts of the three YiTish emperors making friends of the nobles, fighting in their wars, and making some of the most lucrative trade deals his house had ever seen. The four years after that, they’d spent doing the same in the courts of Leng, Asshai, Qarth, and then all the way up to Lorath, Ib, and Samyriana. The voyages had been a risky gambit, but they had paid off immensely, increasing their wealth tenfold. As far as Lucerys was aware, their coffers had grown to surpass those of Winterfell and Riverrun _combined_ , and were on pace to surpass those of Highgarden and Casterly Rock around the start of the new century, especially once Viserys signed into law some of the trade charters he’d proposed. 

The newfound wealth was even more startling given the fact that his lands consisted of an island dwarfed by the other kingdoms a _hundredfold_. 

As advantageous as the wealth was, it had not gone unnoticed. Stannis Baratheon, overseeing all incoming trade as Lord of Dragonstone, had been most dismayed by it, attempting to impose tax after tax on incoming ships to curb their growth, though it did little to affect him. What _did_ affect him was the aforementioned Lord’s refusal to allow House Velaryon to build more than one-hundred ships for themselves. Of course, Lucerys was planning to use all those ships to depose Stannis quickly and efficiently when the opportunity presented itself, but it wasn’t like _he_ _knew_ that. 

Nevertheless, Driftmark had prospered under his reign like it never had before. Lucerys had been renowned as a fair lord by his people before all the new trade came, but after, he was damn near _worshipped_ throughout the island. He taxed the wealthy far more than the poor, not for any altruistic reason, but for the simple fact that a happy people were a loyal people, and loyal people would be needed to defend the island when they went against the stags. Corlys Velaryon, genius though he may have been, had vainly spent his wealth on jewels and palaces rather than improving the island, and he paid dearly for it, as the greens were able to cut through Driftmark like piss through snow. Lucerys had learned from those lessons, using the gold in his coffers to shore up the island’s defenses as well as build new ones, renovate his castles, clean the streets, and open sickhouses and mess halls funded solely through taxation—a system that the Valyrians had implemented for their free citizens that he’d always admired for its efficiency. Driftmark’s populace was now among some of the most well off in the kingdoms, even the poorest of the lot weren’t close to living in the squalor experienced by the poor folk of the capital. Should war come soon, the usurper would have an incredibly difficult time getting the island to bend to his will. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on his solar door, and after beckoning whoever it was to enter, he was greeted by a face he hadn’t expected to ever see in this space. 

“Ser Owen,” Lucerys said, using the false name given to Ser Jaime in Dorne. Of course, he wasn’t too worried about word getting out of him using Jaime’s true name, as Driftmark’s staff were not only _extremely_ well paid, but he had made spying of any kind punishable by drawing and quartering to scare any potential turncloaks. Nevertheless, it was best to be careful when the doors weren’t closed. 

“Lord Velaryon,” the knight said, smiling grimly. Lucerys extended his hand to offer him a seat, and the young lion obliged, shutting the door behind him. 

The two survivors of Aerys’s court watched each other for a while, silently, each trying to get the measure of the other until Lucerys broke the silence:

“Is there something the matter, Ser? I’m curious as to why you sought me out.”

The younger man looked up, his smirk never wavering. “I wanted to speak to you.” 

“Oh? Whatever for?” 

“About your _'bastard'_.” 

_Ah_ , Lucerys thought, _he wants to know about Viserys._

“Has Aurane done something?”

He scoffed. “May we speak plainly, my lord? I’ve never been one for false names—even today when people call me ‘Ser Owen’ it takes at least two tries to get my attention.” 

Lucerys snorted at that. The man had clearly inherited his father’s frankness. “Of course, Ser Jaime. What is it that you would like to know?” 

“You lived through Aerys’s court, same as me,” The knight started. 

“I did.”

“You were friends with Aerys, before his madness.” 

“I was.” 

“So you know the signs?” 

Lucerys thought on that one. “I would say I do—Is this going somewhere, ser?”

Jaime nodded. “Viserys does not take after his father?” He asked, though it sounded more a statement of fact. 

“No, he doesn’t. I’ve made sure of that.” 

“Have you?” He asked, and the sarcasm in his voice was palpable. “I seem to recall you encouraging Aerys’s madness more than discouraging it. How am I to know you’re not doing the same with Viserys?” 

Lord Velaryon blinked, surprised by the rejoinder, though he quickly recovered and answered frankly. “Aerys’s madness was not something I ever encouraged. Granted, when I could use it to further my own goals, I used it, but I never whispered in his ear to burn nobles, and I even attempted to dissuade him from his obsession with the pyromancers—“

“—For all the good that did,” Jaime replied, scathingly. 

Lucerys sat up straighter, narrowing his eyes slightly at the knight’s impudence, though his smile never wavered. “Have you an issue with me, ser? I wonder what it is I’ve done to earn your ire?”

The knight huffed out a laugh. “Oh please—you were Aerys’s lapdog for the entire time I was in the Red Keep, his most loyal supporter, said so by the man himself. Is it any wonder I’m curious as to our new King’s mental state when you clearly did fuck all to prevent the deterioration of the first one’s?”

“And what would you have had me do?” Lucerys replied, snorting derisively. “Forge a maester’s chain at the Citadel in order to find a cure for his sadism? I did what I had to do for the good of my family, ser—and I don’t regret a single decision I made. That does not mean I ever approved of the king’s savageries.”

“Yet you would have stood by watching his burnings happily as long as he put a crown on your daughter’s head,” the younger man replied, staring at him openly as if daring him to argue otherwise. 

“For the good of my house, yes, I would have,” he answered, without hesitation. If this cub thought he could guilt him into submission, he was sorely mistaken. “And your own father would have no doubt done the same had he been able to convince Aerys to wed your vain, empty-headed sister to his son,” Lucerys drew no small amount of pleasure from the scowl on the lion knight’s face at that retort. “Because, ser, as much as your father is my enemy, if there’s one thing we both understand, it is that our families must be the first thing in mind when navigating the nest of vipers that is King’s Landing.” 

“You choose him over Rhaegar. Why?” 

Lucerys let out a sharp laugh. “Rhaegar was a fool who filled his head with delusional fantasies. He had plenty of chances to depose his father, yet never had the strength to do so. He was of absolutely no use to me. Besides, I may have watched the boy grow, but I was no part of his inner circle, he never hid his displeasure at my ambitions. Aerys, on the other hand, was someone who trusted my instincts and never doubted my loyalty. Had Rhaegar shown any initiative, and actually attempted to _court_ my support, I would have gladly switched sides. As it is, he underestimated me, waited too long, abandoned his duties, and died as a victim of his own foolishness.” He leaned in, closer. “Besides, I don’t think you’re one to chastise me for my lack of honor, considering…well,” He smirked. “Your reputation precedes you, ser.”

Ser Jaime clenched his jaw, though his smirk was still firmly in place. “I did what I had to do,” he finally said, iron lacing his words. 

“As did I,” Lucerys replied. 

Both men sat there staring each other down, silently willing the other to surrender, though neither did. 

“You’ve met Viserys by now,” Lucerys finally spoke. 

The knight blinked at the non-sequitur, though nodded. “I have.” 

“And?” He asked, “Do you think I’ve raised an evil, cruel prince who wants nothing more than to burn the first noble that so much as disagrees with him?” 

Jaime ground his teeth. “No,” he finally replied. 

“What is your impression of him?” The Lord of Driftmark asked, tilting his head to the side. 

“He seems to be a decent lad,” Jaime said, staring down at the floor. “Though a bit wary around me, he does not appear to begrudge me his father’s death.” 

“That’s because I told him not to,” The younger man looked truly taken aback by this new information, and Lucerys continued, his tone hard: “Aerys was a mad dog, he needed to be put down. My only regret is that I didn’t get to do the damned thing myself, as I should have.” 

Now the young knight was gaping. “You can’t mean that you were…” 

Lucerys nodded, grimly. “I was.” 

“When?” 

“After the Battle of the Trident,” he said, steepling his fingers together. “I had convinced Aerys to finally disinherit Rhaegar after he set off for battle, convincing him that his son’s transgressions were too numerous to forgive. Had Rhaegar won, he would’ve come back to the Red Keep to find himself removed from the line of succession, passed over in favor of his infant son. Aegon was then to be betrothed to my daughter Laena, a queen of pure Valyrian stock as Aerys always wanted, Viserys would’ve still married Arianne as per my terms with Prince Doran, and Rhaenys would’ve most likely been married off to the tyrell heir in order to assure Rhaegar had no allies to call upon. Your father wouldn't have moved a finger lest he saw some chance of his daughter being queen, and with Lyanna Stark in the picture, there would've been none. All those documents had been signed—once Rhaegar won the battle, all I had to do was slip a few drops of Tears of Lys into Aerys’s wine, which he would’ve drunk confidently, as I was the only one aside from Rossart that he trusted by that point, and he would have died a few days later, no one the wiser. Our king was not known for his robust health, after all.” 

Lucerys took a sip of lemon water, ignoring the knight’s incredulous expression. “King’s Landing would’ve fallen under the Princess Elia’s control as regent for her son, Prince Doran would have sent ships and men to the capital under Oberyn’s command before Rhaegar arrived, and he would have been forced to accept the new terms, as in no universe would an army that would have most likely been battle-weary and depleted in numbers have been able to triumph against 40,000 fresh troops. Unfortunately, the fool died, and he took most of his damned family with him.” 

Ser Jaime sat there, a look of abject shock on his face as the Lord of Driftmark finished the summary of his ruthlessly efficient plan to make his daughter Queen. Lucerys had been quite proud of the plan, and had it worked he had no doubt that his name would’ve been mentioned in the history books alongside such manipulative schemers as Larys Strong and Bloodraven, though he wouldn’t have cared. He served House Velaryon first and foremost, the rest of the world could hang. 

“So, Ser,” Lucerys said, pouring himself more lemon water. “Have you any more questions?” 

Jaime looked ready to say something, but then seemed to think better of it, then laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Gods, you and my father truly deserve each other.” 

Lucerys smiled, brightly, taking what was intended to be an insult as a compliment. “Ah, regrettably, our stars are crossed. Now, if there’s nothing else, I believe that my good-daughter could use some familiar company today—with her family leaving and all.” 

A look of concern flashed over his face, and Lucerys knew then and there that the knight truly was completely loyal to Rhaenys. “Yes, I think you’re right.” 

As the knight stood to leave, Lucerys called out to him once more. “Ser!” 

He turned to him, an eyebrow raised and a hand on the door. 

“Get to know your king, I daresay you’ll be surprised at the man beneath the titles. He’s strong and ambitious, yet not completely ruthless or unyielding, there is a softness there,” Lucerys smiled then, “Rest assured, he turned out nothing like me.” 

The Lannister scoffed, though he nodded before he left, and before Lucerys knew it he was alone in his solar once more. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned back to his paperwork. 


	8. Monford I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monford assumes the role of Lord of Driftmark in his father's absence, and takes his wife to see what remains of her heritage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thumbs up to anyone who catches where I got the inspo for the first flashback from!

Monford Velaryon, Lord of The Tides and Master of Driftmark. 

The title sounded strange to his ears—yet while Father was away at the Arbor for Rhaemond’s betrothal tourney, that was what men would call him as he welcomed supplicants and dealt with all the duties that came with the title. 

As a boy, Monford had always marveled at how comfortable his father seemed in the role, watching him with widened eyes as he sat bent over his desk, mumbling figures to himself and signing this document and the next. However, unlike the lords Monford had met throughout his life who seemed to despair at all the work that came with the position and act the martyrs, going on and on about how it was a necessary burden for the good of their people, father seemed to relish it. He supposed it was only natural, most lords would much rather spend their time in the training yard or indulging themselves at various taverns, but father hadn’t so much as touched a sword in nearly forty years, and he loathed drinking almost as much as he did whoring. 

_“Any man who lets himself be swayed by pleasures of the flesh will soon find himself ruled by them,”_ He’d said to him one day, when Rhaemond had come back to the castle reeking of wine and perfume.

Father had taught him in the years before this, taught him how to be a good lord, a just lord, but was he ready? He didn't feel ready when he said goodbye to his parents, uncle and sister, on the docks that morning. He didn't feel ready when he'd been addressed as "Lord Velaryon" by his father's men on the way back, and he certainly didn't feel ready now, standing in the lord's solar, _father's solar._

Settling himself behind the big oak desk that had seemed to dominate the room almost as much as father himself, he idly traced over the various seahorse carvings on the surface. In that moment, he felt very much like a child putting on his father’s work boots, trying desperately to make them fit. How many times had he sat on the opposite side of this desk, being taught by father on one matter or other?

_“Monford,” Father smiled, brightly. “Please, take a seat.”_

_Monford sat down, eagerly. Father was always so busy off in King’s Landing serving King Aerys, and even busier these days with this new rebellion raging on that they rarely got any time together, so he savored these moments._

_“You’re turning two-and-ten today, my boy,” He said, taking out a carafe of something and producing two goblets. “Do you know what it means? What will happen sooner than later?”_

_“I’ll be a man grown in a few years,” Monford said, and he smiled when father nodded approvingly._

_“Exactly,” Father poured some of whatever was in the carafe into one of the goblets, sliding it over to him. “And as such, I say it’s high time you shared a drink with me. I don’t particularly enjoy drinking, but there are times I find a goblet of wine appropriate.”_

_Monford’s eyes lit up, although he didn’t really care for alcohol, having inherited his father’s revulsion for its taste, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to indulge just once. “Thank you, lord father.”_

_Father waved his hand, dismissively. “No trouble at all, my boy, now drink! That’s a fine, strong dornish vintage I’ve just got delivered straight from Sunspear.”_

_Monford did as he was bid and sipped at the wine, though he almost spit it out in disgust. The taste was far too strong, not like most wines he’d tasted, though he powered through and swallowed._

_Masking his displeasure, he smiled at his father. “It’s very good, father.”_

_“I’ve no doubt it is,” he replied, though his eyes looked at him queerly. “You know Monford, one day you will be lord of this place. You’ll have to deal with all sorts of matters, and when the time comes you must be prepared. Not to worry, my boy,” he said, when he saw Monford’s furrowed brow. “That day will not come for many years yet—I’ve no intention of leaving this miserable earth anytime soon, rest assured. Nevertheless, as a father, it would be neglectful of me not to teach you so that you may be prepared for what is to come.”_

_“Will you teach me now, father?”_

_“Of course, we begin our lessons today. First, a lord must always be knowledgeable. He must know everything there is to know about his lands, his people, his coffers. And—oh Monford, you’re nursing that cup, drink!”_

_Monford blinked, but did as he was bid, and downed the entire goblet of wine, ignoring the burning sensation in his throat._

_“Now,” Father continued, refilling Monford’s goblet, much to his dismay—not that he let it show. “As I was saying, if a lord is not knowledgeable of these things, he is doomed to fail in his duty. If he does not know the amount of grain he has in his stores, his people are doomed to starve. If he does not know the amount of gold in his coffers, his castle is doomed to crumble. Do you see what I’m saying, my son?”_

_Monford nodded. “Yes, lord father.”_

_“Good, now let’s drink some more,” Father lifted his goblet high in the air, and Monford did the same, before proceeding to sip from it, then downing it when he saw father doing the same._

_Monford tried to ignore how woozy he was beginning to feel from the wine. He did not want to displease father, so he shook off any ill feelings._

_“Oh my, but you’ve appeared to take to this vintage!” Father said, smiling brightly. “Here, let’s have some more—just this once, I’m sure your mother won’t mind,” he cut in, seeing Monford about to protest._

_Father refilled his goblet, as well as his own, though with a different carafe, and Monford yet again began sipping at it as father continued for some time explaining the various duties a lord should fulfill while he nodded his head, though by the time the goblet was near empty he couldn’t take it anymore, and—to his horror—felt bile rising up in his throat. Before he knew it, he was emptying his stomach on the floor of his father’s solar._

_When he looked up, his face red with shame, he saw father staring at him, his face now a blank mask, having dropped his cheerful demeanor as easily as if it were a wet rag. “Now, you’ve been saying that you understand everything I’m telling you, but you clearly don’t. You see,_ you’ve _been drinking strongwine,_ I’ve _,” he lifted his goblet and tipped it over, and Monford watched as a clear liquid spilled out onto the floor, “been drinking water.”_

_Father leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The most important lesson that you will learn as a lord, and the lesson I’m teaching you now, is this:_ Never _let yourself be influenced by other people. Especially people like me.”_

That day he threw up in the solar seemed so long ago when he’d woken up this morning—now, sitting behind this desk, he felt every inch the twelve year old boy desperately wanting to please his father. 

He wouldn’t fail in the responsibility entrusted to him—he couldn’t. 

* * *

Rhaenys had seemed rather out of sorts since his parent’s departure. He knew, of course, that she’d taken to spending her mornings with mother in her solar, as well as her afternoons with Laena running about the castle getting up to Gods know what. Regrettably, for the past few days, he hadn’t been much help at all, as he was working near all day making sure all of Driftmark’s affairs were in order. Viserys had kept her company some, but he was often busy with his own duties around the castle serving the Castellan, Richard Lonmouth, as his protegé. Today, he was determined to lift her mood. 

“Princess,” he said, catching her staring out at the sea on the battlements, her faithful Lannister knight at her side, “Ser Owen,” he greeted him. 

“My lord,” they chorused, Rhaenys sketching a quick curtsy and her knight a shallow bow. 

“Ser, if I may have a word alone with my wife,” He smiled at the knight, though the man looked over to Rhaenys with a raised eyebrow as if asking her for permission to do so, to which she nodded. With that, he left them, though not without an almost paternal glare at Monford. 

Monford cleared his throat, nervously. “I was wondering if you’d like to go sailing with me today, my princess. The day is fair, the winds are kind, and there is someplace I would like to show you if you would allow me.” 

Rhaenys blinked at that, clearly not expecting the offer. “I would’ve thought you’d be busy my lord, the past few days have seemed quite hectic for you.” 

Monford sighed. They _had_ been hectic. Father had left behind an incredibly organized ledger, and a stable land to rule over, so of course, it wasn’t as bad as all that, but ruling over Driftmark would clearly take some getting used to. He had to deal with the finer details of a trade shipment from Lorath, as well as some of the orphanages asking for more funds. Father had virtually monopolized all the orphanages, sickhouses, and mess halls so that the essentials for the people of Driftmark were provided directly by House Velaryon, funded solely through a new tax code. The system was the first of its kind in Westeros, though it had been used by the Valyrians—and to an extent, some of the free cities today—for the free citizenry. The new system was much more efficient than the previous one, drastically raising the standard of living on Driftmark and creating a much more loyal populace, but the additional bureaucracy meant far more work needed to be done by the lord. Father, being a gifted administrator—owed to the fact that he’d stepped into the role of Master of Ships from the time he was fourteen—flourished in the role, usually completing all his work in less than eight hours. 

Monford, well…Monford had spent three hours last Tuesday attempting to choose a suitable husband for his brother’s former wet nurse. 

Still, with each passing day, the workload became far less daunting, and he found that he was beginning to get used to the role. So, with that in mind, he’d decided to take a half-day today, and spend some time with the young wife he’d been—to his shame—avoiding like the pox. 

“You’re right that they have been busy days, and I apologize for being so unavailable. However, I have time today, and I think I would quite like to spend it with you. If you don’t mind, of course.” 

To his relief, she nodded, even looking pleased with the idea. 

“Wonderful!” He held out his arm, and she took it, albeit with a hint of hesitation. “Let us not tarry then.” 

They walked down to the docks, making light—if stilted—conversation. He had asked her about how she was finding Driftmark, and she seemed please with the place. Monford told her they wouldn’t stay there forever, however, as father was having Corlys Velaryon’s palace of High Tide rebuilt for the both of them, to reside in until Monford ascended to the lordship. Where Driftmark had a dark beauty to it, with its black valyrian stone walls, High Tide was all light. Its walls were made of gleaming white marble with roofs of beaten silver, and though it had fallen into significant disrepair after being put to the torch during the dance, Father had spent the past five years renovating and returning it to its original splendor. It would take another year to be finished, as he’d ordered a series of curtain walls and watchtowers built around the keep to better protect it so that it never met the fate it had met in the dance again. 

“I think we passed it on our way here from Sunspear,” Rhaenys said, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “I saw some new walls being built, and men working on them. It was quite beautiful.” 

“It’s isolated as well,” Monford replied. “For now at least. Spicetown’s ruins are near it, but Uncle Rhaemond will be rebuilding it soon enough, as well as his own keep there.”

“It sounds wonderful, I look forward to seeing it in its completion, my lord.” 

A few more awkward attempts at conversation, they finally made it down to the dock where he stowed his sloop, and after he helped Rhaenys in, he got in, undocked the sloop, and they were off. 

As the salty sea air blew through his silver locks, he felt like a dying man who’d just been given a tonic of immortality. _This_ was exactly what he needed after the past week of drowning in documents, charters, marriage agreements. The sea was to the Velaryons what the sky had been to the Targaryens many years ago. That had been what had made them such an incredible alliance in the first place. Both of the blood of Old Valyria, but the Velaryons had had the men and the naval power to make Aegon the Conqueror’s dreams into reality. Aegon may have conquered the seven kingdoms with dragons, but he would never have been able to keep hold of them without a standing army and navy—that was where his own house had come in. Standing at the front of the sloop, Monford felt just as powerful as Aegon must have when riding Balerion. He couldn’t imagine anything else—even dragons, coming close to this.

The sound of a slight shuffle in the back brought forth the reminder of another one of Aegon’s very own descendants sat there with him, and he realized with a grimace that the whole sodding point of this trip had been to break the ice between him and his wife in the first place. 

“Rhaenys,” he said to her. “How are you finding Driftmark?” 

She smiled, timidly, and at that moment he wished that father _hadn’t_ taught him how to read people’s faces so well because he knew that smile, and it was one reserved for court when you needed to placate unpleasant lordlings. “It’s lovely, Monford.” 

He bit back a sigh, instead settling for a small smile of his own that he hoped didn’t look too much like a grimace. “I’m glad.” 

The silence between them stretched for what seemed to be the most painful hour of his life, but by how far the sloop had gotten from the point where he’d spoken his reply and the point they were now, it couldn’t have been more than two minutes. 

“Have I mispleased you, my lord?” 

Well, _that_ certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting to come out of her mouth. 

“Excuse me, my princess?” He replied, completely dumbfounded. 

“Have I mispleased you, Monford?” She spoke more confidently this time, though her fingers were still bunched up in her skirts, a clear tell that she was trying to keep up the nerve to question him. 

“Why—of course not, Rhaenys—I, I’m truly struggling to understand what it is I could’ve done to make you think such a thing?” 

Rhaenys frowned, looking down at her hands, and he was yet again reminded by how young she was—though he brushed the thought aside. It wouldn’t do to get worked up over this again, for now, he needed to accept it. “You…haven’t really been speaking to me for the past week. And—and when you do, it’s almost as if you’re being forced to.” Monford sighed because he _knew_ that she was right and at that moment he felt like the worst man on earth. “Also,” she added, her face turning red, “You haven’t—claimed your husbandly rights since our wedding night.” 

Now it was Monford’s turn to blush, and he was sure his face was redder than the dragon on his wife’s banners. “You—you _want_ me to claim my rights?” He asked, shock and disbelief writ all over his face. 

She went even redder, the color of her cheeks clashing starkly with the green of her dress. “I, I don’t know, I suppose, perhaps,” she shrugged, clearly trying to mask her discomfort. 

Monford found himself completely floored. He would’ve thought that she wouldn’t have wanted to share a bed with him—well, ever, though of course, she would’ve needed to eventually, at least once in a while. The idea of his wife actually _wanting_ him in her bed now, so soon after their tense, awkward wedding night, took him for a loop. 

“I—I fear I must apologize, my princess. You’re right of course, I have not been giving you as much attention as I should. But, to share your bed, I—er, was under the impression you didn’t want to, at least, for now.” 

Rhaenys fiddled with her skirts, nervously. “Well, you were mistaken…Monford.” She said his name as if it were an afterthought. 

Monford sighed. “Rhaenys, I beg your forgiveness for the misunderstanding, as well as for my absence these past few days. Being Lord of Driftmark is something my father makes appear far easier than it actually is, and I must confess that the work has overwhelmed me quite a lot. As for my rights…it just—didn’t feel right to share a bed with you.” 

She recoiled slightly, and Monford cursed his abysmal wording even before she uttered her heartbreakingly self-conscious reply: “Is it the way I look? I know I’m no great beauty—” 

“No, no, it is absolutely not that!” He replied, quickly. “I must beg your forgiveness again, my princess, I fear I’m about as good with words as the Dothraki are at sailing.” He reached out a hand, putting it over both of hers. “It is absolutely not the way you look—The maiden reborn in all her glory could not compare to you.” Perhaps that was a tad much—Father had always said he should’ve been a mummer had he not been born a noble—but she really _was_ beautiful. Her heavy-lidded violet gaze, plump red lips, lightly tanned skin, lustrous brown hair, all combined to form a thoroughly pleasing picture: a cross between the ethereal beauty of the Targaryens and the sensual allure of the Martells. 

Still, the blush the comment elicited told him it was the perfect thing to say. He continued: “It is not your looks, my princess, that have stopped me from claiming my rights.” Monford sighed, shaking his head. “You’re young—especially compared to me, and I—strange as it may sound—don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you may not be ready for.” 

Rhaenys frowned. “We’ve already done it.” 

“I know—but I don’t think either of us had a very good time, did we?” She looked down, nodding her head. “That’s why I was of a mind to leave you be—I saw how uncomfortable it was for you, and I figured it would be best to give you your space afterward.” 

“I understand,” she replied, looking back up at him. “But…I don’t want space. You’re my husband, I’m your wife, and—I would be your wife in full.” 

Monford raised his eyebrows, looking into her eyes. “If that is your wish, I will do so.” 

“Is it _your_ wish?” She asked, looking at him imploringly, and _seven hells_ those eyes of hers would be the death of him.

He swallowed, audibly. “It is.” Admitting that he wanted to lay with his wife should not have made him feel queasy, but it did. She was the same age as his squire—little Rogar Lonmouth, with the stutter. True, she was far more attractive, and her figure was not that of a child, but it made him conflicted all the same.

She smiled. “I’m glad. So…tonight?” 

“Tonight?” The thought of it was daunting, but he couldn’t say that he’d go to her rooms that night an unhappy man. The week had been stressful, his wife was gorgeous—if young—what on earth did he have to complain about? “Very well, then. Tonight.” 

Rhaenys blushed once more, smiling into her lap and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Good,” she said, softly. 

Monford nodded, then turned back around to man the tiller, smiling to himself both at the thought of what awaited them tonight, as well as what awaited them in little less than an hour once they reached the cave. 

She would love them. 

* * *

Once the cave fell within his sight, he turned the sloop towards its entrance, an action which elicited a raised eyebrow from Rhaenys. 

“We can’t be going _there_ ,” she said, her expression betraying her trepidation. 

Monford smiled, cryptically. “Oh, but we are.”

“What could possibly be of any interest in that old cave?”

His smile widened. “Wait and see, sweetling.” 

Rhaenys blushed furiously at the term of endearment, and Monford couldn’t help but let out a slight chuckle at how she muttered her acquiescence for him to enter the cave, sheepishly twiddling her thumbs. 

He docked the sloop near the entrance like he’d done ten years before when he’d taken Viserys here. After helping Rhaenys disembark, he got off himself, taking with him the torch he’d brought aboard the sloop and lighting it. 

As they ventured deeper into the cave, Monford decided to lift some of the suspense from their visit with a question: “What do you know of Vhagar, Rhaenys?”

She blinked, but quickly shook off her surprise at the question. “She was a dragon, ridden first by Queen Visenya Targaryen, then Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and finally Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

“All true,” Monford said, nodding approvingly. “When she was ridden by Lady Laena, she lived here at Driftmark. And this,” he motioned to the cave they were in with a grand sweep of his hand, “was where she made her lair.” 

He heard a slight intake of breath from behind him and smirked. “So that’s what this is?” She breathed. 

“Aye,” he answered. “And Vhagar wasn’t the only dragon who lived here. There was Laenor Velaryon’s mount as well, Seasmoke. It was said the two were very close, some even suggested that they’d mated. And many years ago, I came across this cave and saw something that I believe proves those assumptions.” 

“What?” She asked, and it was truly impeccable timing when she did so as that was when they reached the part of the cave he’d desperately wanted to show her. 

“These,” he replied, lifting the torch to light the small antechamber. 

The three eggs still sat there in the exact same spot that he’d left them, looking as if they’d been laid yesterday, glowing in all their glory. He could still remember a cheeky eight-year-old Viserys lecturing him on why they hadn’t aged at all, and why their warmth could still be felt.

_“They’re warm! I swear it, touch them!”_

_Monford eyed the eggs warily, he’d felt the same when he was here all these years ago. But his friends had dismissed his beliefs quickly, and he’d thought them right. However, if Viserys felt it too…_

_He reached out to touch one, his eyes widening in pure shock when he realized they were just as warm as they were six years ago._

_“But how—Wha—How—“_

_“They’re alive, They must be,” Viserys breathed, paying no mind to Monford’s increasingly incoherent babbling._

_“My friends—“ Monford continued, “They told me they were cold, that they’d turned to stone—“_

_“Grand Maester Pycelle used to tell me that only the Valyrians could ever tame dragons, that many believed them to have dragons’ blood. Mayhaps it’s the same with the eggs, you can only feel their warmth if you’re of Valyrian ancestry.”_

_He was about to dismiss the argument as the naivety of an eight-year-old, but the words died in his throat as he realized that Viserys’s words held some truth. Monford was Valyrian on both sides. His mother was a Celtigar, and his father was a Velaryon. Both were families that had come over from Valyria before the doom, and both were families that had frequently married into House Targaryen._

_“I—suppose so. But, how could they be alive? After all this time? They must be at least 150 years old.”_

_“Dragons are magic,” Viserys said, as if he was explaining the alphabet to a toddler._

_Monford scowled, “I know that,” he replied petulantly, “Still, it’s rather extraordinary.”_

The memory brought a smile to his face, and the smile only grew when he saw Rhaenys’s own reaction, her jaw slack in awe at the three glowing eggs beside her. 

“Those are—those are dragon’s eggs.” 

“Aye.” 

“Vhagar’s eggs.” 

“Aye. Touch them.” 

She looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “W-what?” She breathed.

“Touch them,” he put a hand on her arm, gently guiding her towards one of the eggs. For whatever reason, he felt that the red one with orange swirls was the one best suited for her, so he put his hand atop hers, carefully settling it atop the egg. 

Rhaenys let out a sharp exhale, looking up at him in shock. “It’s warm!” 

“It is,” He replied, matter-of-factly. 

“How?” 

“Dragons are magic,” he replied, grinning in remembrance. 

She turned back to the egg, surveying it with a look of pure awe on her face. “This shouldn’t be possible.”  


“Viserys thinks this means they can still be hatched.” 

“He knows?” 

“Aye.” 

“Why hasn’t he brought them back to the castle, or you? Why leave them here?” 

“I didn’t want to disturb them unnecessarily. Besides, I’m not of a mind with Viserys on this. If they can be hatched, why haven’t they?”

“Perhaps they haven’t encountered the right riders yet,” she replied, turning over the egg to examine it further. “That happens, you know. Eggs were put in the cradles of Targaryen babes, and some never hatched, even if they were warm. It was taken as a sign that the dragons simply weren’t meant for those, that they were destined for another.” 

“Perhaps,” Monford allowed. “Nevertheless, I remain skeptical of any possibility of them hatching. Dragons have been gone for centuries, and these, warm though they are, don’t look to be waking any time soon.” 

Rhaenys shook her head, smiling to herself. “You’re wrong,” she said, though there was no malice in it, it was said as a statement of fact. “I can feel it, there’s something different about these, this one in particular,” she tapped hers. 

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“We need to take them back with us,” Rhaenys said. 

Monford blinked. “Why? They’re fine here, they have been for near two hundred years. I can’t see any benefit to bringing them back.” 

“Please,” she begged, pouting—and damn it all, it was working. “Consider it a wedding gift, my lord, from you to me.”

Monford shook his head at her, though his lips curved up into a smirk. For all her bashfulness, Rhaenys Targaryen knew how to get her way when she wanted to. It was no wonder mother had taken such a liking to her. 

“Very well, we’ll take them back to the castle.”

She smiled, giving him a quick peck on the cheek for his acceptance, and at that moment he hated himself for how pale he was because damn it all his face must have looked like a pomegranate by now, if Rhaenys's giggles were anything to go by.

_ How is it that I can be as silver-tongued and scheming as father when navigating treacherous courts like the ones in YiTi, as deadly as Rhaemond with a sword on a battlefield, but when it comes to my wife I turn into a blushing maid? _

He didn't know. But if it endeared her more to him, perhaps a few blushes here and there were nothing to grumble much over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it, please do not hesitate to comment, they encourage me so much (and therefore I write faster!). Next chapter will be from an entirely new POV, in an entirely new region, so stay tuned!


	9. Willas I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas Tyrell speaks with his grandmother and meets the Arbor's newly arrived guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was quick--but i love writing the Tyrells so much so I just breezed through it lol. Hope you enjoy!

“What are you gaping at, boy? I told you to bring me the tartlets. Now, you fool!”

Grandmother’s harsh dismissal of the poor serving boy sent him scurrying back to the kitchens, and Willas couldn’t help but roll his eyes. 

_Poor sod_ , he thought to himself, _at least be content with the fact you needn’t contend with her every day like the rest of us._

The Queen of Thorns took a sip of arbor gold from her goblet, looking at the gardens below them as if they’d done her wrong somehow. “Anyhow, what was I saying before that hampered serving boy interrupted us? Ah, yes—we received word from Vinetown, the Velaryons should be here by nightfall, tomorrow morning if the winds slow a bit.” 

Willas nodded in confirmation. His family had been impressed with just how high the Velaryons had risen in the matter of a decade. The Tyrells had watched on carefully as legends of their newfound wealth—some saying they were now even wealthier than his own family—had reached them from all over. Father had seen a new house to ally themselves with, eager to jump at the chance, though grandmother had been cautious. 

_Something here is rotten_ , she’d said, a determined look to her grizzled face. 

Still, the betrothal Lord Velaryon had sent over to House Redwyne had been too ideal to ignore.Both were houses that relied on trading, and the Velaryon’s new trade connections to the far east were highly coveted by houses all over the kingdoms. House Velaryon was also renowned for their naval power, which had grown remarkably over the years, some saying Driftmark now commanded a fleet of one-hundred ships, with rumors going as far as to say they were in the process of petitioning the king for the permission to build _more_. 

So, Grandmother had written to Uncle Paxter, urging him to accept. Though that didn’t mean the questions she’d raised weren’t still worth asking. How had the Velaryons grown their wealth so? Why were they tying themselves to different kingdoms? Why were they commanding a hundred ships and trying to build even more when the last reports of soldiers in Driftmark reached barely 5,000 men?

None of House Tyrell knew. And that bothered them significantly. 

“Has Uncle Paxter prepared everything for their welcome?” Willas asked, popping a grape into his mouth. 

Grandmother nodded her head. “Yes, yes, everything’s been ironed out. Thank the gods, I think it’s high time we met this elusive lord. I’m quite interested to hear what he has to say.” 

Willas smirked. “Whatever his machinations, the Lord of Driftmark will be no match for you, grandmother.” 

She let out a short, sharp laugh to that. “Kind of you to say, dear. Though you must admit, this man is quite the curiosity. I’ve tried to tell Mace as such, but you know your poor father’s about as sharp as a bag of wet mice.” 

He smiled, shaking his head. “I can sympathize with your thoughts on father, but yes, he has turned out to be quite the interesting man. Haven’t you already met him though?” 

She shook her head. “Only once, when I was dragged to the prince Rhaegar’s wedding. Shrewd man, and too clever by half, though I don’t think I truly appreciated him at the time. This pattern, however…first he ties himself to the Dornish through his son and his sister’s marriages. Now he’s tying himself to the reach through his brother and his daughter.”

“Daughter?” Willas asked, nonplussed. 

“Yes,” She nodded. “Your uncle Baelor has been in talks with him. Lord Velaryon is reportedly considering giving his eldest daughter over to your cousin Daeron.” 

“Hmph,” Willas breathed, leaning back in his seat and absently stroking the floral patterns carved into the mahogany table. “How old is the girl?” 

“Ten-and-five,” she replied. “A few years older than Daeron, though nothing as bad as all that. She’s also said to be a great beauty, which certainly helps her cause.” 

“Her name?” 

“Laena.” 

“Laena,” he tested out the name on his tongue, feeling that he quite liked the sound of it, then quickly shaking his head. There was no reason to think about the girl’s name for long, as she wasn’t all that relevant at the moment. “Will Uncle Baelor accept?”

Grandmother folded her hands together. “From what I can understand, he’s eager to. It’s Lord Velaryon who’s the hesitant one. I suspect it’s some leftover grudge—after all, there isn’t much good history to be had between your mother’s house and his own.” 

Willas grimaced. The Dance of the Dragons. Certainly not House Hightower’s finest moment—especially considering it had all been for naught—but that was over a hundred years ago, and it had ended with a union between the Velaryons and the Hightowers that calmed the enmity somewhat. Princess Rhaena Targaryen’s marriage to Lord Garmund Hightower had been a fruitful marriage, and she was the sea snake's own granddaughter. Could the Lord still be upset about this? 

“You’re wondering how he can still be upset about that, aren’t you?” 

Willas smiled and nodded, well used to Grandmother reading him like a book. 

“The Velaryons were left destitute from that little tiff, dear boy. They went from being the wealthiest family in the kingdoms—making the Lannisters look like paupers—to ravaged and piss-poor in a matter of moons. Of course, having one of their own as a queen after the war helped them significantly, but they never reached the same level of prestige or wealth again, and were gradually all but forgotten. All because, in their view, a few ancestors of yours were too grubby and reached for what was not theirs in the first place.” 

He hummed in response, the point resonating. “I can see that. Still, it would be quite foolish to reject a betrothal on a century old grudge.” 

“Not if there’s a better betrothal to be had.” 

“How do you mean?” He leaned in, intrigued. 

“Think, my boy. Dorne, the Reach. What do they have in common that the Velaryons don’t?” 

Willas furrowed his brow. “Hm…food, perhaps? More ports for trading?” 

The old harridan scoffed. “Gods, for all your brains, you really are your father’s son.” She leaned in, “Armies!” 

“Armies?” Willas asked, confusion plain in his tone. “What on earth would they need armies for?”

She shrugged, airily. “Your guess is as good as mine. It could be that they’re making a play for that ugly iron chair—and I suppose they have some claim, as they have more Targaryen blood than any family in Westeros—or, that they’re preparing to place another on it, perhaps Prince Viserys, nestled away safely in Tyrosh? Lucerys Velaryon was known for being extremely loyal to King Aerys after all, and old loyalties die hard. Then again, they could just be making sure that they have enough important houses tied to them so the Baratheons don’t get any ideas to tamper with their trade operation. Either way, these matches are no coincidence.” 

Willas looked around them, warily. It was dangerous to speak of the Targaryens openly with anything other than dismissal or outright contempt, even in more sympathetic parts of Westeros like the Reach. Thankfully, Grandmother’s solar was situated strategically in the castle so as to be largely isolated from every other room. 

“You truly think he could be planning to make war with the crown?” 

She waved a wrinkled hand, dismissively. “Perhaps, though I don’t see why exactly. Lucerys Velaryon was loyal, but he isn’t stupid. I think it would serve him better to try to weasel his way back into the small council, and with these new alliances, its the best chance he has. Either way, we’ll monitor the situation and see what happens.” 

Willas leaned back into his seat, toying with a stray curl, then dropping it hastily when he realized how eerily similar the gesture was to Margaery. “Yes, I suppose that’s all there’s left to do.”

* * *

The flowing script in front of him describing his daughter’s recent wedding warmed Willas’s heart. Oberyn truly was a gifted writer. Willas would have to look into this Valyrian temple on Driftmark, he had no idea such a structure had existed anywhere in Westeros.

He was also quite happy for Princess Deria, who, according to Oberyn, though still shy, seemed to be well disposed towards her new husband. The girl he’d met when he visited Sunspear was a kind, bookish little thing, though she was beautiful even as a child. No doubt a daughter of Ashara Dayne and Oberyn Martell would not be anything less. He hoped for her sake the letters’ descriptions of her husband rang true. 

His friend had also put in some suggestions for breeding his newer mounts, as well as a promise to send over one of Dorne’s elusive sand steeds as a belated present for his twentieth name day. Willas had coveted them for a long while, and he had no doubt Oberyn would fulfill his promise. 

Willas had also found a description, albeit a brief one, of the infamous Lucerys Velaryon in Oberyn’s missive. _“More clever than he is handsome, making him one of the smartest men I’ve ever known in my life,”_ Oberyn had quipped, much to Willas’s amusement. There was also talk of Lord Velaryon’s eldest daughter—his prospective good-cousin, if Baelor had his way. _“A lively, clever little thing. Beautiful like her mother, but with her father’s dry, cutting wit.”_

Willas didn’t know why, but he found his hand tracing that sentence the most. 

The heir to Highgarden sighed, running a hand over his face. 

Was he truly this starved for affection if he was drooling over some girl he’d never met? 

It was no secret that had it not been for his accident, Willas could have married years ago. _Would_ have married years ago, most like to some Bannerman’s daughter. Perhaps if the rebellion hadn’t succeeded he would have wed Princess Rhaenys. 

The poor princess was now long dead, however. Along with her entire family, except for one. The reminder of Viserys Targaryen made Willas scrunch up his face in thought. Why on earth would Lord Velaryon risk everything to support one boy on the other side of the world, with nothing to him but his name? It didn’t make any sense, not when everyone’s descriptions of Lord Velaryon had mostly fallen within ‘calculating, ruthless, ambitious.’ Supporting Viserys Targaryen was an incredibly risky gambit, it would serve him far better to try and take back his seat on the small council, or attempt a betrothal between Prince Joffrey and his daughter if he wanted ties to the crown. The Velaryons may not have been well-liked by the Baratheons, but they were extremely wealthy, and if the rumors of the crown’s growing debt to the iron bank were true, the Baratheons would need access to that wealth sooner or later. 

Still, he couldn’t help but shake the questions in his mind.

Why did everything trace back to the Velaryons? 

What were they hiding? 

Willas hadn’t the faintest clue. And that was what unsettled him the most.

* * *

It was daybreak the next morning when the Velaryon party arrived at the docks of Ryamsport, and, dutiful son he was, Willas was there to greet them—along with his aunt, uncle, parents, siblings, Horas, Hobber, and of course, Desmera. The girl had been most adamant that she was to look perfect for her betrothed and appeared half in love already, despite him being old enough to be her father. Tales of Rhaemond Velaryon and his nephew’s exploits were all the rage in Westeros now, and Desmera was more than happy to tell everyone she met that she was to marry this handsome silver-haired sailor. 

When their ship docked, Willas caught a glimpse of four heads of silver disembarking, before they began to come into clearer view as they walked closer. 

Lord Velaryon was certainly as Oberyn had described him—his face was angular, his jawline severe, giving him an elegant, austere sort of handsomeness, as opposed to the beauty of the other Valyrian men he’d seen, chiefly Prince Rhaegar. He was tall and thin, dressed in robes of sea-green, with a haughty look on his face—Willas thought at that moment that the man looked far more a king than any king he’d seen in his life. 

His brother was certainly different. Rhaemond Velaryon was broad-shouldered where his brother was thin, and was also slightly taller, though not by much. His hair was the same shade of silver as his brother’s, not silver-gold like the Targaryens but more a very light gray. Their faces were similar, though Rhaemond’s features were a tad softer. His eyes, however, were definitely not his brother’s shade, boasting a bright lilac color as opposed to his brother’s turquoise. His facial expression was much different as well, the man looked to be scowling, and once he saw Desmera his eyes widened and he mouthed something that suspiciously looked like _‘seven fucking hells’_.

Lady Velaryon and her daughter came alongside them, and Willas was almost struck dumb at their similarity. Mother and daughter looked nearly identical, save for the Lady Laena’s hair, which was the grayish-silver shade of her father’s rather than her mother’s, which was nearly white. More than their similarities, they were remarkably beautiful, particularly Lady Laena. She was taller than her mother, her figure more shapely. She wore her hair completely loose, rather than up and braided in the styles popular most kingdoms south of the neck, and the lustrous silver waves traveled down to the small of her back. Willas had the most peculiar urge to run his hands through it, though he shook it off. 

Once they came to stand in front of them, his Uncle Paxter greeted them with a broad smile on his face. 

“Lord Velaryon, Lady Velaryon, Ser Rhaemond, Lady Laena,” He nodded to each of them. “It is a pleasure to host you here at the Arbor and to celebrate the joyous union of our two houses.” 

“Please, my lord,” came Lord Velaryon’s smooth voice. “The pleasure is all ours, we assure you. House Redwyne is most generous in giving us a daughter of yours to make our own, and we are honored to be joined with you all now to celebrate.”

Lord Velaryon’s gaze fell on Desmera, who was blushing redder than her hair and staring quite openly at Rhaemond. 

“And this must be the lovely lady Desmera,” Lord Velaryon said, slightly lowering himself to her level. “You look radiant, my lady. I look forward to calling you my good-sister in a few year’s time.” 

Desmera beamed, curtsying and giving her own demure greetings. Lord Velaryon turned to his brother, raising an eyebrow at him expectantly until the younger man groaned slightly and walked over to where Desmera stood. 

“My lady,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it in a very courtly manner, though Desmera looked ready to faint in response. 

“I look forward to making your acquaintance, as well as to the day we are wed,” Rhaemond said, every word sounding like a stone he had to pass. “You look quite lovely.” 

“T-thank you, my lord,” Desmera breathed, staring at him as if he were a god. “You’re so pretty,” she whispered, though she clearly didn’t mean to say it out loud if the widening of her eyes was anything to go by. Garlan and Loras snickered beside him at her words, and Willas had trouble holding in his own laughter. 

Rhaemond looked like he wanted nothing more than to run as far away as he could at that moment, and this time a slight chuckle did spill out from Willas’s lips as well as his brothers, though it was silenced by the look their lady mother sent them. 

Lady Laena, however, appeared to find the situation terribly amusing as well, as her back was half-way turned and her shoulders appeared to be shaking with barely suppressed mirth. 

“Yes, well,” Rhaemond cleared his throat, glaring at his niece murderously. “I believe we haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to the rest of your party, Lord Redwyne.” 

“Oh, but of course!” Uncle Paxter replied, putting his hand on Aunt Mina’s shoulder. “This is my wife, the lady Mina of the Houses Tyrell and Redwyne,” He pointed to his cousins. “My sons, Horas and Hobber,” Now his parents, “My good-brother and good-sister, Lord Mace and Lady Alerie Tyrell,” now to them, “My nephews, Garlan, Loras, and Willas, and who could forget my lovely niece, the lady Margaery.” 

The whole party bowed and curtsied, exchanging greetings with each other. 

Lord Velaryon got to him first. “Lord Willas,” he greeted, inclining his head. “I thank you and your family for traveling so far. It isn’t often one sees a family so devoted to one another that they travel all this way for a cousin’s betrothal tourney. I don’t see your grandmother here, is she back at the keep?”

Willas raised an eyebrow at the hidden meaning behind the Lord’s words— _Why on earth are you all not in Highgarden?_ —though his smile stayed intact. “She is,” he confirmed, silently noting the fact that none of them had informed Lord Velaryon of grandmother’s presence. “She wasn’t able to come down with us though, something about her old bones not being suited for a ride down to the docks.” 

The older man chuckled, his green eyes crinkling slightly. “Yes, that does sound like her. I only met her once, but she left quite the impression on me—old woman has a mouth on her.” 

This time, Willas’s smile was more genuine. “You don’t know the half of it, my lord.” 

Soon, Lord Velaryon made his way to his mother, and they exchanged a warmer greeting. They’d been acquainted with each other back at the capital during the days of Aerys’s court, as mother was one of Queen Rhaella’s ladies. Mother had said that the queen and Lord Lucerys were very close, and Willas silently decided to question her on how close later on when they were alone. The information could prove quite useful in sussing out the lord’s motives. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by Lady Laena, who appeared in front of him with a wide smile. “My Lord Willas,” she curtsied, her silver tresses bouncing slightly with the perfunctory movement. 

“Lady Laena,” he smiled back, nodding. “You look lovely, if I may say so.” 

She blushed, the red of it a fetching sight on her pale cheeks. “Thank you, my lord. You look quite handsome yourself.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, and she nodded her head, moving on to greet Margaery. 

Willas continued exchanging greetings with everyone, though every few seconds he found his eyes wandering towards the silver-haired girl. 

* * *

In the Gardens of the Arbor, Willas and the rest of his family were waiting to bear witness to a true meeting of the minds. The Queen of Thorns and the Lord of Driftmark—a match for the ages. 

Ser Rhaemond and Desmera were walking ahead of them, Desmera peppering her betrothed with questions about YiTi and Leng. Willas found the whole situation terribly amusing, and if the smirk on Lord Velaryon’s face was any indication, so did he. 

As they walked along in companionable silence, Willas felt a sudden sharp shooting pain up his crippled leg and hissed slightly, though quickly recovered and continued his trek. 

“Your leg, my lord?” Lord Lucerys asked, his head tipped to the side, inquisitively. 

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Willas waved him off, hoping not to receive any of the pity he so often did. He knew what everyone saw—not the heir to the reach, no, they saw the fat flower’s crippled son. 

_“What a waste,”_ they said, 

_“Poor dear.”_

_“It must kill Mace to have a son with such an affliction.”_

_“To think he had so much potential.”_

He was bloody sick of it. He didn’t need anymore, and certainly not from Lord Velaryon. 

“Clearly it isn’t,” Lord Velaryon said, and Willas almost growled in frustration at the fact that the man had chosen to pick at the topic more. “You needn’t get frustrated on my account,” he said, as if reading his mind. “I know how you feel more than most.” 

“Oh, you do, do you?” Willas bit out, his words containing more than a tinge of bitterness. 

“Yes,” The older man said, not fazed by his anger. To Willas’s confusion, he extended both arms at once, and the heir to Highgarden almost gaped when he noticed the difference. 

The left arm was noticeably shorter than the right, the left hand ending where the right hand began. 

Willas turned to the lord, a question on his face. 

“Summerhall,” he answered, without preamble. “I was in the great hall with the royal family when the fire started. The whole place went up in what felt like mere seconds, and before I knew it, a burning beam fell upon me, crushing my shoulder and pinning me to the ground. I was nine, and according to the maester, when young children suffer such traumatic fractures to their limbs, it can impede their development significantly. The arm never healed properly, the tendons fused together all wrong, so I can’t move my left arm at all above my elbow, nor my shoulder. Virtually, my entire upper left torso is useless.” 

“How did you survive?” Willas found himself asking. 

Lord Velaryon smiled, though his eyes glazed over, appearing haunted. “The beam was lifted by Ser Duncan the Tall. He pulled me out of the rubble before the flames could get to me, carried me outside, laid me down on the grass beside King Jaehaerys, then went back in for the rest of the royal family.” 

“I hide it well,” He continued, “I always keep my arm bent and close to my chest, and my tailor knows how to make my clothes so it conceals it effectively. Thankfully, my left hand is the same size as my right, and didn’t suffer too much like my arm from it—the maester told me I was quite lucky in that regard. Nevertheless, I can certainly sympathize with you, my lord.” 

“I apologize for my harshness earlier, my lord. It was uncalled for.” Willas lowered his head.

Lord Velaryon waved the apology away as if it were a fly. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Gods know I was resentful when _this_ happened. I’d just started being trained with the sword, and had dreams of knighthood and glory. My father was the one to console me, he told me it was a sign from the Gods: that I was destined to be a commander, rather than a soldier. That the reach of a sword only extends a few feet past your hand, but the reach of a mind, if one learns how to use it, can cross the world entire.” 

Willas bitterly recalled what his own father had said in the aftermath of his injury—when he’d thought Willas had fallen asleep under the milk of the poppy.

_“Better for all of us if you caught some infection.”_

He’d never forgiven him for that—not truly. 

“Wise words,” Willas said instead, silently envying this man for his dead father. 

“Indeed. Now, tell me, your grandmother’s wits haven’t dulled in the years since Prince Rhaegar’s wedding, have they?” 

Willas smirked. “Not at all, my lord.” 

Lord Velaryon grinned, wolfishly, as if gearing up for a challenge. “Then this should be quite an entertaining evening.” 

* * *

Lord Lucerys and grandmother greeted each other warmly enough—and grandmother even took the seat across from him for the families’ first dinner together, a small, intimate occasion before the tourney and the rest of the grand celebrations began tomorrow. Paxter had clearly hoped to claim that seat, but one glare from grandmother had him meekly scuttling to the other end of the table like a scolded child. 

“So,” Grandmother began, taking a sip of arbor gold. “How fares your son, my lord? I hear he’s recently got himself shackled.” 

Lord Lucerys smiled. “Monford is doing quite well, Lady Olenna, thank you for asking.”

“He married the Martell girl, did he not? Careful with those dornish, they’re a shifty lot.” 

He saw Laena, sat across from him, look as if she desperately wanted to roll her eyes. 

“Yes, he did marry Princess Deria. She’s a sweet girl, my lady—nothing _shifty_ ,” he stretched out the word, slightly mocking, “about her.”

She gave a noncommittal hum, taking another sip from her goblet, before pondering aloud: “Those dornish are quite liberal when it comes to bastards, you know? Wasn’t that how she started out—as Prince Oberyn and Lady Ashara’s bastard?” 

“She was legitimized through their marriage, but yes,” Lord Velaryon replied, carefully. 

“Hm—You have a bastard yourself, don’t you, my lord?” 

Willas choked on his hippocras, and when he looked around the table he saw most of his relatives looking mortified at grandmother’s frankness. 

“Mother!” His own mother said to grandmother, chastising. 

“Don’t call me mother,” grandmother retorted, sharply. “If I gave birth to you, I’m quite sure I’d remember it.”

Mother flushed, muttering an apology and sinking back into her chair, while father comforted her slightly with a pat on the hand. Margaery and Loras—bless them—were completely ignorant of the tension at the table, both feeding each other various items and whispering among themselves. 

“I do,” Lord Velaryon said, tensing slightly—the first time he’d ever seen the man anything other than completely calm. “Aurane.” 

Grandmother proceeded to pop a slice of cheese into her mouth, and after she was done chewing, asked: “And who was his mother? Some crownlands lady—a tavern wench?” 

Lord Velaryon grit his teeth, and he saw Lady Velaryon beside him looking as if she wanted to shove the knife she was holding into grandmother’s throat. “Neither. A daughter of a Lyseni merchant, by the name of Larra.” 

“Hmph,” Grandmother swished around the wine in her goblet, almost bored. “You must have loved her quite a lot to raise him in your castle.” 

“She died of greyscale, and it was her wish that her son grow up with his family. I was merely honoring a dying woman’s wish, Lady Olenna.” 

“It must be difficult for you,” She nodded to a fuming Lady Velaryon. “To watch his whelp run around with your own trueborn children.” 

The Lady of Driftmark smiled, though it was so false and sharp that he heard Garlan wince slightly beside him. “It was early days in our marriage, we were…not on the best of the terms at the time of the affair. I don’t begrudge the boy his existence, and he gives me a wide berth. Not to mention he's a servant besides—it's not as if he's being raised beside my children. It’s no great trouble.” 

Willas knew that grandmother had nothing to say to the contrary on that, as there was—to her frustration—little to no information coming from Driftmark that wasn’t approved of by Lord Velaryon. The man kept a tight lid on any and all information passing from his castle, and clearly had a talent for sniffing out spies. 

“I was young, my lady,” Lord Lucerys said, taking a sip of his own goblet—water, instead of wine, Willas had noted. “Young men often make mistakes.” 

“You don’t strike me as the sort of man who makes many mistakes, my lord,” Grandmother said, and Willas knew that she was trying to suss him out in some way, but the Lord of Driftmark was clearly not a novice when it came to playing the game, and his face gave nothing away that wouldn’t be expected. 

“Now, perhaps,” Lady Velaryon answered for her husband. “He was an idiot in his youth, _I_ can certainly attest to that.” 

The jest made everyone at the table chuckle and broke the tension that had settled over the table like a ray of sun through a stormy sky. Grandmother nodded approvingly at Lord Lucerys and Lady Lysandra, as if they’d passed some secret test only she knew about. For the rest of the evening, she was content to sit back and listen to the conversation around her rather than interrogate their visitors. 

“Ser Rhaemond,” Desmera, who was sat beside her betrothed, looking as if she’d just been told she’d been proclaimed queen of the seven kingdoms. “Do tell us all more about YiTi.” 

Rhaemond—who appeared to be on his seventh cup of wine for the evening—looked down at his betrothed with a frown, as if she were some pest he couldn’t shake off of him, though Desmera was oblivious to it all. 

“Very well,” he said, after a moment, animatedly describing the golden empire they had all heard about only through books and legends. “It’s divided into many petty kingdoms, constantly warring with one another, not unlike Westeros before the Targaryens. But the true powers in YiTi are the three cities, each ruled by a different dynasty. Xiangyang, Lin'an, and Bianliang. They’ve all been feuding for the last few thousand years, each one claiming that they are the true dynasty meant to rule all of YiTi. You can imagine that it’s quite the mess.” 

Desmera gasped, a hand to her heart, and he saw Lady Laena from her place next to her hide a giggle in her cup of hippocras. “Oh, how fascinating! Did you go to any of the cities?” 

“I did—all three. My nephew Monford and I, we spent a little over a year in each of the courts.” 

“Wasn’t there a fourth great city?” Loras asked, furrowing his brow. 

Rhaemond raised an eyebrow at him, and his brother flushed. “I’ve read some on the subject.”

He nodded. “There was—Hangzhou. It was destroyed forty years ago, however—sacked by the Jogos Nhai. All that remains now is a ruin, the water’s flooded it completely and the streets have turned into canals. The Castamere of the Far East, if you will,” Ser Rhaemond raised his glass, mockingly, though he lowered it after what appeared to be a kick under the table from his elder brother. 

“Castamere,” Grandmother scoffed, “Lord Tywin still won’t let anyone forget about what he did to that bloody castle. If you so much as burp in his direction, he sends a singer and a harp.” 

Willas snorted, and he saw Lord Velaryon’s lips curve upward. 

“Tywin is certainly a proud man,” Lord Lucerys agreed, tipping his head. “Serving beside him on the small council taught me that much.” 

“What was it like to serve the Mad King?” Loras asked, eagerly, and Willas had to shake his head at his brother’s lack of tact—He truly hoped that Renly Baratheon would teach him something about holding his tongue when he came to take Loras to squire for him. 

“Loras!” Mother and father chorused, scandalized, though Lord Lucerys waved away their objections. 

“It’s quite alright.” The Lord of Driftmark said, smiling politely at his youngest brother. “It was quite the trial, young Loras. Like walking a tightrope really, constantly fearing that you’d slip and say something you shouldn’t have said, or do something you shouldn’t have done. Aerys had been a friend of mine, and to watch him fall into madness was no easy thing. Thankfully, our friendship—perceived friendship, at least—was enough to shield me from his ire.” 

“Pah,” Grandmother said, and _Gods be good_ , Willas was of half a mind to take away any and all wine from her at this point. “Please, you licked the man’s boots for so long it’s a wonder your tongue isn’t black.” 

He saw father put his head in his hands and groan, and uncle Paxter looked ready to weep at how tart-tongued she was being, but Lord Velaryon—to everyone’s surprise—smiled. “It was either lick his boots or let the flames lick _me_ , my lady. I have to say, I don’t regret my choice one bit.” He turned to father, “I can see why you kept her away from court, my lord. I’m afraid with that tongue Aerys would’ve tossed her into the flames _himself_.”

“Ha! I would’ve liked to see him try.” Grandmother said, defiantly. 

“Truth be told, after this _lovely evening_ , I would’ve as well.” 

The whole table fell silent at the scorching retort—no one, _no one_ ever gave grandmother as good as she got, it was a recipe for disaster. But, to their surprise, Grandmother burst out into a wide grin and laughed heartily. 

“I like this one,” she said, wagging a grizzled finger at a smirking Lord Velaryon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Please leave a comment if you can--they really do help me write faster.


	10. Lysandra I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysandra fumes over the Queen of Thorns' questions, reconnects with an old friend, and discusses further opportunities to strengthen ties between House Velaryon and the Reach.

“Gods, the nerve of that woman!” Lysandra said, as soon as the door shut behind her and Lucerys. 

She was absolutely fuming—by what right did Olenna Tyrell _dare_ humiliate her and her husband in such a manner. 

“Lysandra, calm yourself,” Lucerys’s voice was bored, almost as if he were humoring her—and _Gods, now_ she remembered why she’d thought him so insufferable at the beginning of their marriage. 

“I will not!” She yelled, pacing furiously throughout the rooms given to her and Lucerys for their stay. “How dare she embarrass me in such a manner! I am a Celtigar—the blood of old Valyria, descended from Kings! She’s nothing but the daughter of a family of up-jumped wine merchants—married into a family of up-jumped stewards!” 

Lucerys was sat beside the fireplace inspecting his nails and _Gods_ did she want to rip off his head for how calm he looked. 

“She was testing us, Lysandra—trying to look for weaknesses and potential secrets. I would’ve done the same had she given me the bloody chance to get a word in, but we passed—there’s no need to be so ornery.” 

At that moment she wanted nothing more than to slap Lucerys across his smirking face, but she held her hand back—for all her anger, she was far too well-bred to do something like that, such behavior was befitting of a fishwife, not a noblewoman of valyrian blood. 

“No need to be so ornery?” She repeated, scathingly. “She—“ 

“—Is an old woman who’s used to getting her way. _Enough_ , let the matter lie.” 

His voice brokered no room for argument, and though Lysandra thought there was plenty more to say, she knew that to question her lord husband—especially in a castle full of strangers—was not her place. This was not Driftmark where they could be free with their words and not worry overmuch about spies—here they were surrounded by people who would see them hang should it mean more power for them. 

“As you wish, my lord,” She replied, voice colder than the depths of the wall. 

Lucerys let out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, don’t get like that.” 

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” she grit out. 

“You’re angry,” He said, moving behind her and toying with a few locks of her hair—and damn it all, he knew how to work her far too well. “I don’t want you to be angry,” a kiss on the side of her neck, “And I know just what to do to make sure you’re not angry anymore.” 

“Lucerys,” she breathed, hating the way her cheeks lit up like a girl of fourteen. “Here?” 

“Why not?” He asked, his voice low. “Olenna Tyrell shouldn’t be the only one to have all the fun, now should she?” 

Lysandra laughed, slightly. “I’m still furious with that awful woman.” 

“And I won’t begrudge you those feelings,” He relented, kissing her shoulder then leaning into her ear. “As long as you keep them to yourself—we’re not in Driftmark anymore, we need to be careful. The walls have ears here,” he whispered. 

Those words sent a shiver down her spine, and not the good kind. She could still remember the way her husband had tensed beside her when Olenna had—rudely—questioned them on his ‘bastard’. She was sure that there was no way the Queen of Thorns knew anything—all of Westeros thought Viserys to be nestled away in the manse of the Archon of Tyrosh, protected by the remainder of his father’s kingsguard. It was impossible for her to know the truth. Still, she’d never felt more terrified—and insulted—in her life. 

Lysandra had been incredibly hesitant to accept her husband’s plan of harboring Viserys. The princess, she could understand—as crushing as an ordeal as her daughter’s stillbirth had been,no one aside from her, Monford, and her husband had known the truth of it, and combined with the perception that Daenerys Targaryen had not survived her birth, it was a rather low-risk plan. As long as she was kept in Driftmark and away from people who’d known the Queen intimately—not that there had been many—it was perfect.

Viserys, on the other hand, had been a much more familiar face at court and was a far bigger threat to Robert’s rule than a girl. Not to mention the embarrassment and shame she had to endure of having her husband’s ‘bastard’ raised alongside her own children. She wondered, briefly, what she would’ve done had Lucerys truly fathered a bastard with some Lyseni girl, as so many believed he had. Would she have had it in her to be as warm to the child as she was Viserys? To raise him as her own? She wouldn’t have been jealous of his mother, she knew that much—she’d long accepted that she’d never have Lucerys’s heart, nor he hers. She loved him, but only as a dear friend and the father to her children. Aside from the occasional burst of lust between them (much like what was happening now), their relationship was strictly platonic. But would she have been able to swallow the shame and humiliation of seeing a living embodiment of her husband’s infidelity—as well as enduring the mockery that came along with it, and the worry of some Blackfyre situation taking place—raised with her children? She didn’t think so. She would never have been cruel, but loving? No. For all her kindness and warmth, Lysandra had her pride—Catelyn Tully she was _not_. 

Truly, the only reason why she wasn’t resentful of Viserys and the shame he’d brought to her was that she’d known the boy since he was born. She’d adored him, and adored his mother—she’d served as one of her ladies in King’s Landing, along with her dear friend the lady Alerie. Also, she knew that the shame was only temporary—let them laugh at her, let them snicker behind their backs about her husband’s whelp living under the same roof as her. Her granddaughter would be Queen, who gave a damn what a few fools thought in the meantime? 

“I understand,” she finally nodded her head, and, grabbing her husband’s hand, led him to the bedchamber set up for her. 

He was right—why let that miserable old crone have all the fun?

* * *

Alerie was just as warm and sweet as she had been the last time they’d seen each other—at court, just before the terrible news of Rhaegar’s death had come and forced them all to flee for their lives. 

“Oh, Lysandra, dear,” her old friend said, pouring her some hippocras. “I apologize for what you had to endure from my good-mother last night. What she asked of you was completely inappropriate!” 

Lysandra smiled, appreciatively. “Thank you, Alerie, but there’s nothing for you to apologize for. That woman’s abominable behavior is not your fault. Would that her husband had shown her the back of his hand every once in a while.” 

Alerie snorted. “Luthor? Oh, gods, he wouldn’t have dared—in fact, Olenna was more likely to be the one striking _him_ , rather than he her.” 

They tittered, sipping their hippocras and gossiping all the while, much like they used to back before the rebellion. Lysandra almost felt as if they were back at the red keep, in the garden of Andros overlooking the Blackwater, Queen Rhaella by their side. 

“So,” Alerie said, lowering her goblet. “How is your son faring? Last I saw Monford he was a boy of twelve!” 

Lysandra laughed. “Oh he’s doing wonderfully—my first boy is a man now. He’s the spitting image of his father at that age.” 

“Oh, how I wish he’d come with you—I would’ve loved to see him again, not that your daughter isn’t completely wonderful. You have another, correct?” 

Lysandra smiled. “Aye—Daenaera, she’s just turned ten. And another boy, not too long ago, Jacaerys.” 

“I would’ve loved to see your youngest daughter—I’m sure Margaery would’ve been happy to have another friend her age here.” 

_Had my youngest daughter come here, you might have recognized Queen Rhaella in her and it would’ve led to far too many questions_ , Lysandra thought, though she merely nodded demurely. “She was sick, poor thing—the pox. She’s healing now, but we thought it would be best for her to abstain from any traveling for a good while.” 

“Of course,” Alerie said, waving away the explanation. “I do hope they meet someday though, perhaps when Margie goes to King’s Landing. She could use some more friends, especially once Loras leaves with Lord Renly. I fear she’ll be terribly lonely, those two are practically attached to the hip.” 

Lysandra put her hand over Alerie’s, nodding in sympathy. “I can sympathize, it’s dreadful. Despite their age difference, Monford and Laena are quite close—I know having him away for so long pained her.” 

“Naturally,” She agreed. “Baelor still worries over me something fierce, and I’m a mother of four—tis the way with brothers and sisters.” 

“My brother used to send me letters in the first year of mine and Lucerys’s marriage offering to sail to Driftmark and spirit me back to Claw Isle,” Lysandra replied, a wave of giddy nostalgia overtaking her. Aelon had known how she and Lucerys had detested each other—owed to the fact that Lysandra waxed poetic about it in her letters to him—and couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy. Fortunately, the ice between her and her husband had melted with Monford’s birth, and in the end, no escape was needed. 

“Speaking of which,” Lysandra said, remembering herself, “How fares Baelor? It’s been far too long since we’ve spoken.” 

“Oh, he’s doing wonderfully. He and Rhonda just had another little one—Daena. His son, Daeron, is serving as a page at Horn Hill right now, with Lord Tarly.” 

_Daeron, the one Lucerys wants Laena to wed._

“What’s the boy like? I trust you know why I ask,” Lysandra said, smirking as she took a bite of the lemon pie laid out before her. 

Alerie mirrored her smirk. “I certainly do, Baelor is quite enthusiastic about a prospective match between our houses. Daeron is,” she hesitated, “a sweet boy. A bit soft, perhaps, but I’m sure Lord Tarly will toughen him up.” 

_Soft_ , Lysandra almost laughed. _Pliable. Good, Laena can learn to control him that way._

“Still,” Alerie continued, “I must confess I think your daughter could do far better than a Hightower. A great beauty, from an old, wealthy family? She’ll have many important suitors, I’m sure.” 

Lysandra quirked an eyebrow. “Anyone in particular in mind, Alerie?” 

The other woman shrugged, in a theatrical attempt at nonchalance. “Oh, I don’t know. Do you know where your daughter is this morning?” 

Lysandra furrowed her brow. “I was under the impression she was taking tea with Margaery and Desmera.” 

Alerie chuckled, knowingly. “She was meant to, but on the way, she was accosted by my son, Willas. According to my goodmother, they’ve been walking in the gardens together all day, talking.” 

Lysandra’s eyes widened in surprise at this news. They’d barely been here a day, the tourney wouldn’t even begin until tomorrow, and already Laena was in the process of snagging herself the heir to the Reach? There was a swell of pride in Lysandra’s chest—her daughter certainly knew that even if only for friendship, endearing herself to the heir to Highgarden would be a great boon for the family. Lucerys had taught her well. 

“I must confess I had no idea,” she replied, flatly. 

“It wouldn’t be the worst match in the world, now would it?” Alerie asked teasingly, taking a bite of a strawberry. 

“I suppose not,” Lysandra conceded. Her and Alerie had fantasized about wedding their children to each other when Laena had been born—they had been angling for Loras or Garlan, at best, since House Velaryon’s wealth back in the days of Aerys’s reign was still not much compared to the great houses—but once the war was over, and Lysandra and Alerie had returned to their homes, all talks stopped, and Lucerys instead began zeroing in on other powerful Reacher houses for Laena. Garlan stopped being an option a few years prior, having been betrothed to the lady Leonette of House Fossoway, and House Velaryon’s wealth had grown too much to waste their firstborn daughter on a third son like Loras, who would inherit little to nothing. 

But even now, a match with the heir of the Reach seemed a tall order—they were wealthy, true, but most Lord Paramounts tended to marry within their bannermen, only making exceptions for other great houses every once in a while. If Laena was successful in enchanting Willas, it would surely be a great boon to Viserys’s cause—and they wouldn’t even need to give him Daenerys, although, either way, the girl would need to marry in order to secure more alliances. Perhaps the heir to the vale, or one of the more powerful Riverlands houses. 

Still, she needed to take other circumstances into consideration. If Willas and Laena wed before any of this came to fruition, she would be living in Highgarden. At best, when the time came for Viserys to reveal himself, their leverage with Desmera would be gone, and they would be negotiating with the Tyrells on an even playing field. At worst, if talks soured, Laena would be a hostage, at the mercy of Highgarden. Lysandra cared for Alerie, and she knew the woman felt the same and would see Laena be treated well, but war was war. Friendships matter little once swords are crossed. 

“Still, it’s early, it could be that they end up not taking to one another.” Lysandra finally said. 

A chuckle spilled from Alerie’s lips. “I know my son, Lysandra—your girl would be so good for him. Witty, beautiful, kind as well. All he’s done since his accident is brood and breed those horses of his,” A look of motherly concern crossed her face, “I should like to see him happy again. It’s been so long.” 

Lysandra patted her old friend on the hand. “It’s only normal. Lucerys was much the same with his accident when it happened—I was only betrothed to him at the time, but my father dragged me to Driftmark every chance he got so we could become acquainted with each other. It’ll take some more time, but he’ll make his peace with it.” 

She sighed. “I pray to the seven that you’re right.” 

“Also,” Lysandra continued, “Laena’s still a bit young, and her father will be loath to let her go so soon—if such a match were to occur, it would be some time before they would wed. If you are prepared for a rather lengthy engagement, I think Lucerys would be open to the possibility.”

Alerie raised an eyebrow. “How lengthy?” 

_Just as long as Viserys needs in order to begin his campaign so we have our leverage._

Lysandra shrugged. “His sister didn’t marry until she was four-and-twenty, though I don’t imagine it’ll be near as long for Laena. Still, I’d wager…three years at the very least, five or six at most.” 

Alerie sighed, swirling around the hippocras in her goblet. “It’s a bit long, especially considering Willas is twenty now, though Mace and I didn’t wed until he was around the age Willas would marry Laena, so I suppose it’s not as bad as all that.” She waited a moment longer before relenting. “I think I shall speak to Mace on the matter—though I’m certain he’ll be of a mind with me that it would be a favorable match. The only problem is…”

“…Lady Olenna,” Lysandra finished, dryly. 

“Precisely,” The other woman nodded her head. “My good-mother is the one who will need to be convinced of the match’s merit, for, as much as I love Mace, he’s too spineless to stand up to her. As am I,” She admitted, hesitantly. 

“I do not blame you on that front, rest assured. Some days I’m quite grateful that my good-mother barely spoke the common tongue, yesterday being chief among them.” 

True, Lucerys’s mother, Marra Rogare, did not speak common all that well aside from some select orders for servants, having been born and raised in Lys, but her disapproving looks and haughty sniffs towards Lysandra were more than enough to indicate her feelings toward her good-daughter. She softened just the barest hint when Monford was born, but it was still quite clear that the woman never liked her. 

“Can you imagine, though?” Alerie asked, giggling much like she did when they were younger. “Our children marrying? It’ll be just like we talked about all those years ago at the Red Keep.” 

A small smile crossed Lysandra’s face. “It would be wonderful, I’m sure. Little grandchildren with silver hair and honey brown eyes, or brown hair and eyes as blue as the sky.”

Alerie chuckled, taking a sip of her hippocras. “Ah, wouldn’t that be glorious?” 

_Aye, it certainly would be._

She’d need to speak to Lucerys on the matter before anything happened though, and they needed to be cautious. As sweet as roses may smell, one mustn’t forget that they have thorns as well. 

* * *

Lysandra found her daughter later that afternoon in the gardens, twisting a lock of her lovely silver hair between her fingers as the heir to Highgarden smiled down at her, clearly in the process of explaining something to her as an excuse to get closer. 

“Lord Willas,” Lysandra greeted him, an eyebrow raised in amusement. 

The both of them turned around at the sound of her voice, Laena hastily dropping the hair she held between her fingers and mumbling a polite _‘lady mother.’_

“Lady Lysandra,” Willas responded, bowing slightly. 

“Thank you for being so, ah, attentive,” she smirked, “to my daughter. Though, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with her.” 

Willas blinked. “Of course, my lady,” He turned back to Laena, kissing her hand with a mumbled promise of seeing her at dinner, then he was off. 

As soon as the Tyrell heir had vacated the gardens, Lysandra beckoned her daughter (who was still blushing) to fall into step with her as they walked. 

“So, what do you think of Lord Willas?” Lysandra asked, not looking at her daughter. 

Laena shrugged, the movement visible in the corner of her eye. “He’s kind, handsome, sweet. Very well read, particularly on history. I like him,” She admitted, no doubt blushing furiously. 

Lysandra smiled. “I’m glad you do, sweetling. But, what would your father think of him?” 

Laena blinked. “What?” 

“I mean to say if your father were the one who spent the afternoon in the gardens with Lord Willas, and not you, how would he describe him?” 

“Oh,” Laena said, finally cottoning onto what Lysandra was asking of her. “He seems to be genuinely kind, and from what he speaks about his life in Highgarden, he spends most of his time there at the stables. He seems to have a good relationship with his mother and brothers, particularly Garlan, though he and his father don’t seem to be on the best of terms—he tightens his jaw whenever he mentions him. He was also fostered at the Hightower and is the favorite of his Hightower family, another point against his relationship with his father, since Baelor Hightower is known to despise Mace Tyrell, and vice-versa if court gossip is to be believed. He’s also very sensitive about his leg, and doesn’t like it whenever one so much as mentions it to him. I offered to help him up a set of stairs when it appeared to be ailing him, but he rebuffed me a bit harshly, though he apologized afterward, and seemed to be genuinely sorry.” Laena took a breath, “All in all, bad relationship with his father, doesn’t like his grandmother’s scheming much at all—and only tolerates the woman herself, feels largely estranged from his Tyrell side as he spent most of his youth at the Hightower, and clearly does _not_ like being pitied for his leg.” 

Lysandra let out a low whistle, impressed. No doubt Lucerys would be beaming like a proud father if he were to hear everything Laena just said. “You learned that after half a day?” 

The shrug could be heard in her voice. “He’s easy to talk to.” 

“I’m very glad you seem taken with him, particularly after what I discussed today with his mother.” 

Her daughter furrowed her brow, confused. “What did you talk about?” 

Lysandra smiled, cryptically. “Just ways to strengthen the ties between House Tyrell and House Velaryon.” 

Laena’s eyes widened comically as she realized what her mother was alluding to. “Really? You think that we could—“

“—It’s not a certainty,” Lysandra said, holding a hand up to silence her daughter. “But as of right now, it is an option that is being discussed. Even if we were to say yes, it would be a _long_ betrothal, so don’t get your hopes up just yet.” 

Her daughter deflated, slightly. “Still, it’s great that it’s being discussed. This would be _incredible_ for our house—we’d strengthen our ties to the mainland and actually gain a significant amount of power _inside_ of Westeros rather than out.” 

Lysandra chuckled. “Gods, dear girl, if your father were with us right now he’d be weeping tears of joy at the way you’re speaking of your betrothal in such pragmatic terms.” 

“House Velaryon comes first, our desires come second,” Laena recited, dutifully. “He taught us that—and it’s a valuable lesson. I need to think of my family first when it comes to my marriage prospects. Although,” she leaned closer, “In this case, both my house and my desires would stand to benefit greatly, so I can’t say I’m not excited at the prospect.” 

Lysandra laughed, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m glad, sweetling. But remember, this is still very much only an idea. It could be that we leave here with a signed betrothal, could be that we leave with the promise of continuing the talks, could be that we leave with nothing at all and move on to others. Do you understand?” 

Laena exhaled a bit harshly but nodded, pale blue eyes meeting her own. “I understand, lady mother.” 

“Good,” She kissed her daughter’s forehead, lightly. “Now, would you like to accompany me to Rhaemond and Desmera’s meeting over tea? I’m meant to serve as a chaperone, along with Lady Mina, but I wouldn’t want to hog all the entertainment for myself.” 

Laena broke out into a wide grin. “Oh, you know the way to my heart far better than Willas Tyrell ever could, lady mother. If there’s a favorite pastime of mine it’s watching Velaryon men embarrassing themselves.” 

They both laughed, and walked off together to the other end of the gardens, ready to see Lady Desmera attempt to converse with an exceedingly uncomfortable Rhaemond. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we should have maybe two chapters left in the reach, and two to three left back at Driftmark (and one more in a surprise location) until the first arc comes to an end, and then we'll flash forward four years later to 298 A.C. when the events of the first book start to begin Act 2.  
> Please don't hesitate to comment! As always they are very appreciated (and help me write fast).


	11. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reflects on his service with Rhaenys, and has a discussion with Viserys on matters of war.

Monford had gone to her rooms again last night. 

It was starting to get bloody annoying. 

Jaime—thankfully—didn’t have to stand guard outside the door as he did with Aerys and Rhaella (and if the sounds coming from the bedchamber next to his were any indication, Rhaenys enjoyed herself far more than the Queen ever did), but it grated on him all the same. 

For Gods’ sakes, he’d practically _raised_ the girl. He was glad she was finding joy in her marriage bed rather than having to tolerate some aggressive brute for the sake of duty (and if it had been an aggressive brute, Jaime would have already cut him in two) but seven hells, it wasn’t easy to come to terms with. 

What happened to the little girl who could barely keep blushes at bay when visiting nobles kissed her hand? The one who preferred books to boys? 

She grew up, he supposed. It was bound to happen someday. Seven hells, by the time he was her age he and Cersei had already been rutting like wild animals for some time. He was being a hypocrite. 

Still—he hated it. 

Jaime wondered, briefly, when it was he’d grown so attached to Rhaenys. He’d rescued her because the spider and princess Elia had bid him to, and by the time he’d looked upon the red ruins of Prince Aegon and Princess Elia’s bodies, as well as the crofter’s daughter Varys had used to replace Rhaenys, he knew that if the girl were to have any chance of survival he’d need to take her back to her family. So, after he’d had killed the last of Aerys’s pyromancers, Varys snuck them to the docks in King’s Landing in the middle of the night, dyeing his hair and giving a Pentoshi ship captain enough coin so he wouldn’t ask any questions, and they sailed from King’s Landing to Tyrosh—spending a few days hidden in the city in the event that his father found out where he’d gone in order to throw off the scent, then took a ship to Sunspear from there. 

He never planned to stay. He’d longed to go back to Cersei—especially once word reached him she was to wed that brute Robert Baratheon. Jaime had known his crimes would be forgiven, for he was Tywin Lannister’s son, far too valuable to execute. Still, he was afraid—afraid of the judgment, afraid of everyone giving him that same look Ned Stark had when he’d found him sitting on the iron throne. That look of utter contempt. 

_Kingslayer,_ it said.

_Oathbreaker._

_Man with shit for honor._

Nevertheless, after two moons spent at Sunspear, Prince Doran had graciously offered him passage on a merchant ship in Yronwood heading for King’s Landing, and he’d accepted. He was about to leave for Yronwood when the Princess had come to his rooms, tipping her head to the side as she always did when she was confused. 

_“Where are you going?”_

_Jaime was startled by the small voice, and spun around to see Princess Rhaenys—Deria now, he supposed—looking at him with furrowed eyebrows._

_Jaime turned back around, continuing to tie his sword belt around his waist. “Away,” he replied, brusquely._

_“Why?”_

_He rolled his eyes and held in a sigh. Couldn’t the girl just leave him be? Hadn’t he done enough at this point? “Because I need to go home.”_

_“This is your home.”_

_Jaime blinked, then felt a laugh bubbling up in his throat at the matter-of-fact tone in her voice. “No, it isn’t. It’s yours.”_

_“Then it’s yours too,” she replied, tone far too haughty for a girl of four. “You’re my knight, and I’m your princess. Knights don’t leave their princesses.”_

_He grit his teeth, silently willing the girl to leave him be. Didn’t she have that frog-faced cousin of hers to play with? Didn’t she realize what everyone else did? That he was no knight? That he’d forsaken his vows—killed her grandfather, a man he’d sworn to protect? “I’m no knight, princess. Not anymore.”_

_“Once you’re a knight, you’re always a knight.”_

_“Not after what I’ve done,” he replied, voice cold._

_“You killed grandfather?” She asked, and he let out a long-suffering sigh, because here it was, the judgment, the scorn. He didn’t need it from Eddard fucking Stark, and he sure as hell didn’t need it from a girl of four._

_“I did.”_

_“That was bad,” She said, though her next words surprised him. “But it’s alright, I forgive you—he was very mean.”_

_This time he did laugh, the sound of it almost hysterical. “Yes, he was certainly that. But it’s not your place to forgive me, princess.”_

_“Of course it is,” Rhaenys crossed her arms, lifting her chin up, challengingly. “You’re my knight—you belong to me, ergo, it is well within my rights to forgive you.”_

Ergo? _Jaime thought, puzzled_. Who the fuck taught her how to speak like that? When he was four he didn’t know the bloody difference between the letter ‘A’ and the letter ‘E’. 

_“If only it were so,” He finally said, finishing with his sword belt and heading for the door._

_To his shock, the girl stood firmly in the doorway, gazing up at him challengingly. “You can’t leave. I forbid it.”_

_Jaime sputtered, struck dumb by the sheer confidence in her voice. “You can’t make me stay,” he replied, and he hated how petulant his voice sounded._

_“Yes, I can. You swore to me, when we were in the city with all the blue-haired people, that you would protect me. That you would keep me from harm. Will you break that vow too?”_

_He recoiled as if slapped, and though his anger threatened to take over, the girl’s next words gave him pause._

_“Stay,” she asked, her voice quieter this time. “Please, be my knight. I don’t care that you killed grandfather, I know that you protected me, and you would have protected mama and egg if you could’ve.”_

_Visions of Princess Elia, her once beautiful face a bloody mess on the cold floor of the throne room threatened to make bile rise up in his throat. She was a sweet woman, who’d never hurt anyone. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d been in Maegor’s Holdfast instead of the throne room._

_Those visions clashed with visions of Cersei, her long, gleaming blonde hair and bright green eyes flashing before his eyes like a mirage. Gods, how he longed to feel her body on his, her lips, her hair in his hand. But he knew that she wouldn’t feel the same. Once when she thought she’d marry Rhaegar, she’d rebuffed his advances, his pleas for them to run away to Essos where they could love one another freely and openly._

“I’m to be queen,” _she’d said, her green eyes staring at him with unbridled disgust._ “Not some vagabond traipsing around a foreign land.” 

_What would he be coming back to? Would he guard her door while she was fucked by Robert Baratheon? Hold her hand while she gave birth to the man’s children, little black haired-blue eyed brutes to further his wretched line? Or would they continue as they always did, which would mean him cuckolding the King he was sworn to protect and serve?_

_Another vow broken. Another reason for him to be reviled._

_Jaime had dreams once, of being a noble knight, a good, decent knight, like Ser Arthur Dayne. What happened to that boy? He was still in there somewhere, he knew. He’d been pushed back by all the self-loathing and cynicism he’d developed while in the Kingsguard, but that eager boy who followed the Blackfish around Riverrun, peppering him with questions about the war of the Ninepenny Kings had not ceased to exist._

_Looking down at the Princess, into her haunting violet eyes, so much like her father’s, he’d thought back to his last interaction with the man._

_“Protect my family, Ser,” he’d said. And Jaime had sworn that he would. He’d sworn it again to the Princess._

_When he looked into her eyes, he didn’t see disgust. Her lips weren’t curled into a sneer, her face not scrunched up in disgust. She didn’t see the Kingslayer, the oathbreaker—she saw the boy who worshipped The Sword of The Morning and The White Bull and the Blackfish. There was no judgment, only naked hope—and an admiration he wasn’t sure he deserved._

_Rhaenys Targaryen, he realized at that moment, was his last chance at honor._

So, Jaime had unsheathed his sword, placed it at her feet, and sworn himself to her, almost on impulse alone. He remembered praying that Cersei would forgive him, and the thought of her haunted him for years afterward. But as each year wore on, he found himself thinking less and less of his twin, his lover. He wasn’t sure if he would ever stop loving her, but the feeling wasn’t as strong as it had been once. Tyrion, of course, he missed, and he felt a pang of intense guilt at the fact that he’d left his little brother at the mercy of their father, but if tales of the famous imp were to be believed, traveling around the seven kingdoms, drinking and whoring to his heart’s delight, his little brother seemed to be quite content. 

Nevertheless, now he was here to stay. Driftmark had proved not quite as dreary as he’d heard the island to be in the days of his youth. Lucerys Velaryon may have been a scheming, conniving, ambitious worm who Jaime didn’t trust as far as he could throw, but he clearly took his duties as Lord of Driftmark seriously if the prosperity they were experiencing now was any indication. He’d read of House Velaryon when he was a boy—loved the stories of the Sea Snake and Alyn Oakenfist—but he’d thought them a house past their glory days, a house to be respected, but all the same a house that was a shadow of its former self. Clearly, this was no longer the case. 

All in all, his stay—aside from the past fortnight of Monford and Rhaenys getting ‘acquainted’ with one another—was not all that horrible. He infinitely preferred the splendor of the Water gardens—truly one of the most beautiful places he’d ever seen—but Driftmark had its benefits. It was close to King’s Landing though, a fact which never failed to make him anxious. He’d thought that Prince Viserys staying here was the most foolhardy idea he’d ever heard of, but as time went on he appreciated the plan more and more. The crown would have never suspected their biggest threat to be hiding right under their noses, especially given the fact that his sworn brothers were in Tyrosh, playing their role of protecting ‘Viserys’ or whatever they’d named that Lyseni pillow-boy Velaryon had passed off as the prince. 

Rhaenys being here did give him pause, however. He knew how she must feel, to be so close to the place where she’d once lived, where she’d lost everything. He caught her frequently out on the battlements, staring out in the direction of King’s landing as if willing it to move closer, or farther, he didn’t know which.

The battlements were exactly where he caught her, standing—unsurprisingly—next to her husband, it looked as if he were explaining something to her. 

“…The walls here, however, are made of Valyrian stone. Do you know what that is, princess?” 

She scrunched up her face. “I’m afraid not, my lord.” 

“Ah, it’s not as famed as Valyrian steel, to be sure, but it’s just as strong. During the Dance of the Dragons, the triarchy was able to sack High Tide relatively easily, but no matter how hard they tried, they could not break through the walls of Castle Driftmark. Each time they attacked the castle walls with the trebuchets they’d mounted on their ships, the stones used for the attack would break apart against the walls, like glass.” 

Rhaenys’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible!” 

Monford smiled down at her, a fond look in his eyes. “Certainly. Dragonstone’s walls are made of the same material—the secret to making the stone was lost after the doom, but thankfully our two ancestral castles got hold of it before it was.”

Jaime decided then to clear his throat, as he couldn’t tolerate their simpering any longer. Monford jumped slightly—the boy was a skittish sort, he’d noticed, much to his amusement—then nodded at Jaime. “Ser Owen,” he said. 

_Gods, why did I have to pick that bloody name, do I look like an Owen? Owen sounds like a name for some minor stormlander lord’s third son who can’t keep his prick in his codpiece._

“My lord,” Jaime bowed, slightly. “If I may speak with the princess, it is urgent business.” 

The boy’s eyes widened. “Certainly, Ser,” he turned to Rhaenys, kissing her hand lightly. “Until tonight, my princess.” 

She blushed, deeply, and Jaime had to suppress a groan. _Great, another night of listening to their revelries._

As soon as he left them, Jaime turned to the princess he served with a raised eyebrow. “Getting on well with dear Monford now, aren’t we?” He said, wincing at the slight petulance in his voice. 

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “He is my husband, Ser,” she replied as if he were a boy of four who needed help with his sums.

Jaime grunted, noncommittally. “I know, but do you have to be so—so—so,” 

“So what?” Rhaenys smiled, clearly entertained by his discomfort. _Damn it all, for all her kindness, Oberyn’s love of making people uncomfortable clearly rubbed off on her._

“So…persistent in your affections,” Jaime said, lamely. “Need I remind you that we share a wall?” 

This time she flushed crimson, then grimaced slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely. “I didn’t know that you could hear.”

Jaime laughed, the sound strained. “The bloody Night’s Watch can hear.” 

She grimaced even more, then put her head in her hands. “Oh gods be good, I didn’t realize.”

Taking pity on her, he backed down slightly: “Perhaps it’s not that bad. And, as you said, he’s your husband, it’s only normal. I’m glad you’ve found joy in your marriage bed, but…be careful.” 

Rhaenys furrowed her brow. “How do you mean?” 

Jaime scratched the back of his neck, willing away memories of Queen Rhaella and her lost babes. “You may get with child if you keep it up so frequently.” 

Rhaenys tapped one of the merlons in front of her, idly. “Would that be so horrible?” She asked, her voice small. “I’ve wanted a family of my own for so long. Since…” 

He sighed in understanding, taking her hand in his. “I know, princess. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be an incredible mother, but you’re young—very young. Your grandmother gave birth at your age and it did not do her health any favors. I think the safest course for you would be to wait a few years, let yourself grow a bit stronger before taking that on.” 

She nodded, though she looked slightly disappointed, she knew he was right. “I won’t make my husband an heir, not yet. He’s of the same mind, you know.” The princess blushed again, looking as if she were steeling herself for her next few words. “He doesn’t—He doesn’t spill inside me, if that makes you feel better.” 

Jaime recoiled, sputtering in horror at the words. “Aghhh—Gods, I don’t need to hear that! I’d much rather he didn’t… _spill_ ,” he spat out the word as if it were poison on his tongue, “anywhere near you!”

Rhaenys chuckled, infuriatingly. “He’s my husband, ser. I’m sorry to inform you that that requires that he spill somewhere within my immediate vicinity.” She said, an eyebrow raised in amusement. 

“Alright, no more talk of spilling—please!” He put his hands up in defense, and she conceded with a nod of her head, though she still had a smile plastered onto her face. “How are the eggs?” He asked, changing the subject. 

Rhaenys let out a long-suffering sigh. “Still warm, but aside from that—nothing. I’ve even tried placing one in the hearth in my room to see if the heat would do it some good, but nothing. Still, there’s something there. I can’t really explain it, but I can _feel_ it.”

“Can Viserys?” Jaime asked, whispering to ensure no one heard. The prince was like to be the only one who could feel anything aside from his sister, but the girl didn’t even know who she was. Jaime himself tended to avoid the little princess, her face brought back too many unpleasant memories of the Queen he’d failed to protect. Every time he saw her eyes, all he heard were Rhaella’s screams of pain and pleas for mercy. 

Rhaenys nodded. “He feels it too—he’s especially taken to the black one with green swirls, I think.” 

Rhaenys looked over his shoulder and her small smile widened. “Speak of the devil.”

Jaime turned around, and with a start realized Prince Viserys—or Aurane Waters, depending on who you asked—making his way towards them. 

“Princess,” Viserys inclined his head, then turned, without looking directly into his eyes, and did the same for Jaime. “Ser.” 

Jaime knew the lad was slightly uncomfortable around him—and no bloody wonder, seeing as how he’d shoved a sword into his father’s back—but Lord Velaryon seemed to have not left the prince with any delusions as to what kind of a king his father was. Still, it was awkward for him—and Jaime, as Viserys looked almost exactly like he imagined Aerys to look before the madness set in. 

Rhaenys, oblivious to any of the tension, leaned toward him, conspiratorially. “Any luck with your egg, Vis?” 

Viserys smiled slightly, then shook his head. “Regrettably, no. Right now all it’s doing is adorning my mantelpiece. Still, you’re right that there’s something there—I tried to tell Monford as much six years ago when I first saw them, but I didn’t have pretty violet eyes and plump lips to convince him with,” he waggled his eyebrows, suggestively, and Rhaenys flushed to the tips of her ears 

“Shut up!” She said, hitting him on the arm, though he merely laughed. 

“For now, I’d say we keep trying to look for anything in the library,” Viserys said, sobering. “Something on how to hatch them, if we even need anything in the first place. I’d like to give the third one to Dany,” he said, quietly, his face sad. 

Rhaenys frowned. “Yes, I should think so too. But we need to wait.” 

Viserys sighed, bitterly. “Aye—I know how to do that much.” 

Rhaenys patted her uncle on the back, soothingly. “One day soon, Vis—it’ll happen. I need to be off, I promised Monford I’d help Dany with her needlepoint. I’ll see you later,” She said, nodding at both of them, then she was off. 

Jaime realized, with a jolt, that he was left alone on the battlements with the son of the man he’d been sworn to protect, and killed.

“How are you finding Driftmark, Ser Jaime?” Viserys asked, in an attempt to be casual. 

Jaime looked around them, warily. “Aren’t you worried about anyone overhearing you call me that?” 

He shook his head, his silver curls blowing across his face from the sea breeze. “No one ever comes out on the battlements—and the staff here know what happens to those with loose tongues, Lord Velaryon’s made sure of that.” 

“What happens?” Jaime asked, curious. 

Viserys narrowed his eyes against the sun as he lifted his head. “One of the kitchen wenches was caught sending a message to Lord Varys a few years ago,” he turned to face him. “She was drawn and quartered, and her rotting corpse was hung from the servant’s entrance of the castle with a message writ in her blood to dissuade any others from following in her footsteps. It stayed there until the birds picked it clean and her bones fell to the ground.” 

Jaime felt a shiver run down his back. His father had done the same to the Reynes, hanging their corpses at the rock, but that had been for open rebellion, not sending missives to the spider. 

Instead, he acted as if it didn’t perturb him, and snorted. “A bit harsh, don’t you think? Especially considering Varys saved the princess from certain death.” 

The prince shrugged, still looking out at the sea. “One mustn’t suffer traitors. Lord Velaryon pays his servants extremely well, cares for their children if they die, dines with them on occasion even. He’s well-loved, but he needs to be feared as well. If not, all manner of unsavory characters will try to take advantage. As for Varys, Lord Velaryon still doesn't fully trust him, and I happen to agree.” 

Jaime hummed, not quite agreeing with the point but understanding it. He’d only spoken with Viserys a few times, and the boy didn’t strike him as mad at all. He wasn’t Rhaegar, to be sure, he spoke of the servant’s gruesome death with the same terrifyingly nonchalant tone Lord Tywin spoke of the Reynes with, though for all his sins, Jaime’s father was far from mad. 

“I don’t think Rhaegar would’ve approved of that,” Jaime said, voice slightly sarcastic. 

Viserys snorted, a bitter twist to his lips. “Aye, he wouldn’t have. Rhaegar was noble and beautiful, every maiden’s dream. He also started a war that ended with the deaths of most of my family all because he filled his head with delusions of prophecy.” He turned to Jaime, his face blank. “I’m not Rhaegar, Ser Jaime. If you’re looking to serve him, I’d suggest you go to Dragonstone—you can guard his ashes if you please.” 

Jaime blinked in surprise at the bitterness in Viserys’s voice. The boy that he’d known in the red keep had worshipped Rhaegar, always excited whenever his older brother arrived in the capital. He suspected it was some sort of inferiority complex, much like Uncle Tygett and his father. Being raised by one of Rhaegar’s staunchest opponents also wouldn’t have helped much.

“I know this, your grace,” Jaime said, bowing his head in apology since his normal sarcastic demeanor was clearly _not_ rubbing off on the prince. “Forgive me if I offended you.” 

Viserys waved away the apology in a manner eerily similar to Lord Lucerys. “It’s nothing—I just don’t appreciate any comparisons to my brother. I apologize if my words came off too harsh.” 

_An apology? For something he said? No, he’s definitely not Aerys._

They stayed there, for a few minutes in awkward but not terribly uncomfortable silence, until Viserys spoke again, voice quiet. “Have you ever fought in a war, Ser?” 

Jaime started slightly at the question—not one he’d been expecting. “No, your grace. I’ve certainly fought, a few skirmishes, here and there, but I haven’t seen any wars. Not yet.” 

Viserys nodded as if expecting the answer. 

“Have you?” Jaime asked as a look flashed over Viserys’s face. It was one he’d seen often on Ser Barristan when describing his experiences in the war of the ninepenny kings. But—the boy was barely eighteen, surely he couldn’t have—

“Yes,” He replied, interrupting his train of thought. 

“When?” Jaime asked, surprised. 

“The Greyjoy Rebellion.” 

“The Greyjoy Rebellion?” Jaime repeated, dumbfounded. “You must’ve been—what?” 

“Thirteen.” Viserys sighed. “I had been squiring with Ser Willem Darry, who brought us here with Prince Oberyn, and wanted to gain some glory I suppose. Foolish, I know, but I was young and bigheaded. Stannis Baratheon called his banners, and Ser Rhaemond took command of the Velaryon fleet with Monford. Lord Velaryon forbid me from going with them as I could be recognized, but I…snuck aboard their ship while they were leaving.” 

Jaime had to give it to him—the lad had balls. He found himself thinking that he would’ve most likely done the same had he been in his position. 

“Monford wanted to send me back because he knew who I was and worried much the same as Lord Velaryon, but Rhaemond had no clue—still doesn’t—and didn’t see why I shouldn’t accompany them. I fought at Fair Isle, then later at the Siege of Pyke. I saw…” he swallowed, audibly, “destruction. Much of it. Men turning to beasts, raping, murdering the innocent. Villages burning, children hanging. And for what? Pride? Ambition?” The prince scoffed, tossing his hair back. “I sometimes wonder if any of this is worth it. There’s been so much bloodshed already—why should there be more? Who gets to choose who lives and who dies? Me?” 

“Salient questions, your grace,” And seven hells, they were. For all that Viserys didn’t like being compared to Rhaegar, the penchant for doom and worrying over others seemed to be a family trait. It was that quality of his concern for the common people that made Jaime think that the prince would’ve made a great king had he lived. A bit naive, but it was a noble thought. “And ones I don’t have the answer to. But the fact that you’re even asking them speaks volumes. You’ll make a great king.” 

“Let’s say I do,” Viserys snorted, turning to face Jaime for the first time. “Let’s say I’m Jaehaerys the Conciliator reborn—what stops my son or my grandson from being as mad as my father before me? What stops them from undoing everything I’ve achieved?” 

Jaime put his hands up, innocently. “Your Grace, I’m afraid these questions are wasted on someone that’s been referred to as ‘the stupidest Lannister’ more times than I can count. Nevertheless, you have the power to change that. Everything you speak of, you can accomplish—you can install reforms that are undoable, protections, rights, all that. How you would do it? I haven’t a damn clue, but you can. It’s not completely hopeless.” 

Viserys shook his head. “Some days it feels like it is. Strangely enough, some days I don’t even want the throne at all. I feel relatively happy here, I have good work, pay’s not too bad, and if I kept up with this mummer’s farce I could, I don’t know, marry a daughter of a household knight and live a relatively decent life. But…”

“But?” Jaime asked, imploringly. 

“This isn’t my home. It will never be my home. I can’t forget that. I owe it to my family to take back what was stolen from us—I just don’t want the blood of innocents to pave my way to the throne.” 

Jaime sighed. _Ah, the naivety of youth._ It was noble, to be sure, that the prince worried over the common folk, but at the end of the day, when ruling, one needs to learn to be practical. You need to break a few eggs to make an omelet and all that. 

“I must admit, I am struggling to reconcile this prince who cares so much for the innocent common folk over the man who shrugged off the brutal execution of a spy as necessary,” Jaime said, smirking all the while.

Viserys scowled, slightly petulant. “That was completely different—that wench was engaging in active treason against the house she served. The farmers whose daughters are raped and whose sons water the fields with their blood are not traitors. They merely exist. Mercy for the innocent, ruthlessness for those who would trespass against you,” he recited. “One of the first lessons Lord Velaryon taught me, and an important one.” 

He conceded the point. “Fair enough. Though sometimes, in order to defeat your enemies, innocents must be sacrificed. That is the way of the world.” 

Viserys shrugged. “I suppose so. And if it comes to a point where I must do so, I will. I just wish I didn’t have to.”

“Would that the world wasn’t as royally fucked as it is, your grace. Then again, that’s the reason why Lord Velaryon is having you play the bastard while he teaches you how to rule, isn’t he?” 

“That and his ambition,” Viserys replied, chuckling slightly. “He cares for me as well, I think. But no one would go through all this trouble just for love.” 

Jaime clicked his tongue, highly doubting that. “You’d be surprised at the things people do for love.” 

Viserys had no answer to that, and they both fell silent, though it wasn’t near as uncomfortable as it had been before. This conversation had cleared up many doubts in Jaime’s mind. The boy was willing to be absolutely merciless when it came to his enemies but had his mother’s tender heart when it came to the innocent. It would’ve appeared that the only places where Aerys’s seed had manifested was in the boy’s looks—he really did bear a striking resemblance to his father.

“Now,” Jaime said, after another few moments of silence. “How did Lord Velaryon react when you came back from Pyke?” 

Viserys smiled at the memory. “He yelled at me in his solar for three hours, then slapped me in the face at the end of it all.” 

Jaime snorted, shaking his head. “He slapped you?” 

“Aye. I told him it was treason to hit his king.” 

“And what did he say to that?” 

His grin grew. “He slapped me again.” 

They both laughed, the serious air of the conversation lifting slightly. 

“He also forbade Ser Willem from knighting me before he died,” Viserys said, quietly. “Said it was punishment for my foolishness. He was right, of course, I didn’t deserve to be knighted after all that—I could’ve gotten everyone killed—but I do still wish to earn the title one day.” 

“I could knight you,” Jaime offered. “It’s rather simple, really. Just kneel and I’ll say some words.” 

The young prince shook his head. “I thank you, Ser, but I need to earn it. Besides, I respect Lord Velaryon too much to go behind his back like that. He’ll see to any knighthood when the time is right, I’m sure.” 

Not for the first time that afternoon, Jaime found his respect for the hidden prince growing significantly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Viserys--reluctant BFFs.  
> Next chapter is another Willas POV, after that, we'll have the last Lucerys POV for this first arc, then Viserys (finally), and then two new POVs will conclude this arc of the story.  
> In case anyone wonders, Viserys's job is assisting the Castellan of Driftmark. I got the idea from the whole Cortnay Penrose/Edric Storm situation, where Edric is being groomed to ascend as Castellan one day. Same is happening here, except, obviously Viserys won't become the Castellan of Driftmark lol.  
> Please leave a comment if you can! They're greatly appreciated!


	12. Willas II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willas spends the first day of the tourney with Lady Laena, talks on a prospective betrothal resume with the Queen of Thorns, and a feast is held at the end of the day.

Willas grimaced as Garlan was knocked to the dirt by the lance of Renly Baratheon. It was a clever move, really—Renly’s mare was in heat, inflaming Garlan’s stallion, and nearly bucking him off. 

_I could’ve perhaps used that if I could still joust_ , he thought, sulkily, but decided it was no use brooding on the world’s injustices. Grandmother had told him as much after his accident in a surprisingly tender moment at his bedside. 

_Stop feeling sorry for yourself_ , she’d said, in that familiarly brusque voice. _You don’t have much time on this miserable rock, do you really plan to waste it brooding? With or without your leg, it doesn’t matter. Life is meant to be lived, dear boy. So keep living._

And keep living he had. Willas just wished that living was easier sometimes. 

“A fine move,” Laena said from beside him, her eyes shimmering in recognition at the underhanded tactic. 

“You know what he did, my lady?” Willas asked, surprised. Not many highborn women knew the art of jousting so well—particularly ones who lived on rocky islands not very suited to the sport. 

She nodded, smiling at Renly as he took his victory lap around the tiltyard. “His mare was in heat—clever, really. I don’t know much about jousting, but I ride often enough at Driftmark to recognize such behaviors in the horses.” 

“Some would say it’s underhanded, dishonorable, even,” Willas replied, smirking. 

She scoffed. “Then they’re fools. You don’t leave your brain behind when you walk onto the tiltyard—it was a strategic move, it’s not Lord Renly’s fault Ser Garlan wasn’t prepared for it.” 

Willas nodded down at her, approvingly. “I happen to agree.” 

They both focused back on the tiltyard, where Renly was receiving a single red rose to grace a lady with. He graciously accepted it from Desmera with a slightly theatrical bow of his head, then proceeded to trot his horse past the stands. Willas thought he’d likely pick Mother or Margaery to grant it to, as a sign of respect and gratitude to House Tyrell for allowing Loras to squire with him. He was proved right as Lord Renly pointed his lance towards his sister, then rode over to her and gently put the rose between her fingers with his gauntleted hand. Margie was ecstatic of course, and looked at Lord Renly as if she were half in love with him already. Everyone clapped politely, and with a low bow, Renly rode off the yard, ready to be received by Loras so he could remove his armor and tend to his horse. 

“Congratulations, Lady Margaery,” Laena spoke from beside him, smiling at his younger sister. “I cannot think of a lady more deserving of such an honor.” 

Margaery beamed, her eyes sparkling with tears of happiness. “You are too kind, Lady Laena.” 

“Just Laena,” she corrected. “I must insist.” 

Margaery nodded. “Very well, Laena, then I must insist you call me Margaery—or Margie, like my brothers do.” 

“Very well, Margaery,” Laena nodded at her. 

Willas smiled back at the young lady from Driftmark, glad to see she got on well with his sister. Margie was—being the youngest of four and as well as the only girl—the apple of everyone’s eye, and though he got on best with Garlan, she was still his favorite. A bit proud, he thought—and it was no wonder seeing as how Grandmother had already sunk her claws into her—but with a genuine kindness and warmth their grandmother lacked. 

Their attention was called by Uncle Paxter, who’d announced the celebrations' end for that day, as well as the feast in the great hall being held in a few hour's time. The various lords and ladies assembled in the stands began to spill out, each going their separate ways until the start of the feast, and, with a slightly ironic bow, he held out his hand for Laena to take. 

“My lady?” He asked, “If you would accompany me for a stroll in the gardens?” 

Blushing demurely, she nodded, taking his outstretched hand. Willas thought he saw Margie smirking far too knowingly in the corner of his eye, but he didn’t have time to evaluate it much as she soon left with Mother and father. 

He and Laena strolled along the gardens, she clearly slowing her pace to match with his, though not mentioning it—something he was silently grateful for—and conversing on everything from books to horses. Truly, Willas could not recall a time in which he’d enjoyed such a conversation with anyone not related to him in some form or another—particularly a lady, and, if mother was to be believed, a potential match. 

He supposed it made sense. The Velaryons, even before this newfound prosperity, had been an old, respected house. Had they remained as they were before the war, Laena would’ve still no doubt been a worthy match for Loras, or even Garlan, perhaps. Not only would this connect the Tyrells to the new power bloc that was forming between the Velaryons and Dorne—a great alliance that, if achieved, would no doubt serve as a formidable counterweight to the stranglehold that the Lannister/Baratheon/Arryn/Tully/Stark alliance had them in—it would bring about untold new trade opportunities to enrich their Kingdom. Willas was also eager to study the new systems Lord Velaryon had put into place on Driftmark for the citizenry, something that, if reports were to be believed, had cut the island’s poverty rate in half in just under three years. 

Still, Willas did not wish to simply marry just for the sake of alliances, as much as he knew it was his duty. So it came as a relief how easy to talk to and quick-witted Lady Laena was. Talks had only just begun—and Grandmother would no doubt work to find every potential problem with the union once she discovered it—but things were looking to be heading in that direction. 

“Have you ever been to Highgarden, my lady?” Willas asked, knowing she hadn’t. 

“No, my lord, I’m afraid not,” Laena shook her head. 

“Oh, you would love it there, I’m sure. The walls are made of the most beautiful white stone, shrubbery spilling over each one. At night, one can watch the sunset over the Mander from its walls. There’s an orchard, outside the castle walls, and when the harvest is ready, we all go down there and pick as many apples as we can, a family tradition. It’s particularly lovely in the summer.” 

The silver-haired lady smiled. “I’m sure it is—tales of its beauty reach even Driftmark.” 

“And what is Driftmark like, my lady? I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure to familiarize myself with it.” 

Her smile widened. “Oh, it’s incredible. I wouldn’t exactly call it beautiful—or if it is, it’s a different beauty than that of Highgarden. The main keep is sat atop a cliff, and some of the lower rooms of the castle are carved into it. The walls are made of black valyrian stone, engraved with glyphs and scenes of old stories from the freehold. The water around it is so clear that you can see to the bottom of the sea bed even if you’re looking down from the highest tower.” 

Willas’s eyebrows flew up. “It sounds breathtaking,” It really did. “I’d love to visit sometime.” 

She blushed, quite becomingly. “You are always welcome, my lord.” 

Willas smirked. “I’ll hold you to that, my lady.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a smiling silver-haired woman walking towards them—a dark-haired girl with her face trailing behind. 

“Aunt Shiera!” Laena yelped, skipping over to greet the woman, who embraced her. 

“Laena, my dear!” The woman he now knew as Lady Dayne said, pulling her closer. “Let me get a look at you, child—Oh, I haven’t seen you since you were five! You are a woman grown now, and a beautiful one at that!” 

_Five_? Willas thought that quite a long time to go without seeing your relatives. Starfall was far from Driftmark, true enough, but families with even more distance between them usually paid relatives a visit once every few years, it was only proper. Perhaps there was a falling out there? He mentally filed away the information for later. 

When Lady Dayne broke apart from her niece, Willas was able to get a better look at her, and he almost gaped at the similarity between her and her brother. They looked as alike as Loras and Margaery, except where Lord Velaryon’s sharp features gave him a severe handsomeness, Lady Dayne’s gave her a severe beauty. Her jawline was as sharp as her brother’s, though not so much that it made her look mannish. Her nose, lips, brow, were all Lord Velaryon’s, though they looked smoother on her face than her brother’s. The only stark difference between brother and sister were her eyes, which were Ser Rhaemond’s lilac rather than the Velaryon sea-green, which Willas now knew—after an entire afternoon of conversation—she’d inherited from Laena’s Rogare grandmother. 

“Thank you, Aunt Shiera, you’re too kind. And this must be my cousin, Carina—hello!”

The dark-haired girl—who, according to father, was to be the next Lady of Pyke—waved shyly at her elder cousin, muttering her courtesies. 

“Yes, isn’t she lovely?” Lady Shiera said, looking down at her little daughter with pride. “ Oh, I’m terribly sorry we didn’t greet you this morning—Our ship from Starfall only got in late last night.” 

“It’s alright,” Laena waved away the apology. “I didn’t even know you were coming!” 

“And miss a reunion with my dear brothers?” Lady Shiera said, sarcastically. _So there is tension there_ , Willas thought. “How could I pass up on such a thing?” 

“Father will surely like to see you,” Laena replied, almost apologetically. 

Waving away the reply, Lady Shiera scrunched up her face as if there was something foul-smelling in the gardens. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware. Gods, if there’s one thing I know it’s that the years must have made that man even more insufferable.” 

“He’s not that bad,” Laena said, coming to the defense of her father, though there was more humor in her voice than anything. 

“Oh, you poor child,” Lady Shiera tutted, almost maternally. “You’ve not yet got caught up in his machinations, so of course you’d think such a thing.” She craned her head to get a view at Willas, then raised two perfect silver eyebrows in surprise once her eyes darted to the cane and realized who he was. “Or, perhaps I spoke too soon. You must be Lord Willas.” 

“My lady of Dayne,” Willas bowed, respectfully. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Likewise, my lord,” The lady inclined her head, though her gaze was penetrating—in a manner eerily similar to her brother’s. 

“Taking a stroll about the gardens with the Tyrell heir, are we, dearest?” Lady Dayne asked, a playful quirk to her brows. Gods,” She shook her head, laughing. “That man’s ambition knows no bounds—then again, if the rumors I hear of a new golden era for Driftmark are true, I suppose it’s a fair match.” 

Willas blushed at the implication. He knew a match was being discussed of course, but for it to be mentioned so explicitly so early—and in front of both parties, no less—was _unseemly_.

Grandmother would surely like this one. 

“Well, I’m afraid I must get back to the castle—Edric will surely be wondering where I’ve gone, and my husband despises being left to fend for himself against the other nobles. Until tonight, Laena darling,” She turned to him. “Lord Willas,” she smirked, then she and her daughter were off. 

Laena watched her go with a fondly exasperated look on her face. “I apologize for my aunt,” She said, not looking very sorry at all. “She can be quite…much.” 

Willas felt a laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Yes, she can certainly be much,” He agreed. “I take it her and your father aren’t on the best of terms?” 

She shrugged, her mask firmly in place. “Brothers and sisters have their issues. At the end of the day, blood supersedes all.” 

Willas almost laughed—she’d dodged his question masterfully. Clearly, the lady from Driftmark was no fool, she kept all her family’s secrets close to her chest. 

Good. It would serve her well at Highgarden—if she indeed ended up being its lady. 

* * *

Father had summoned him to Grandmother’s solar that evening before the feast, and Willas could already guess what they were going to talk about. Mother had implanted the idea into his head only yesterday, and already Father was determined to see his heir wed a Velaryon. Willas knew, of course, none of this was for his benefit—he believed father stopped loving him the day the horse crushed his leg—but no doubt even Mace Tyrell knew what a boon this match would be for his house. 

The answer Father’s proposal had got from the old woman was of course, not surprising.

“Absolutely not,” said Grandmother, her face pinched in annoyance. 

“But mother,” Willas’s father replied, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead. “Surely such an alliance would be beneficial for our houses—the Velaryons are—“

“Very rich, yes yes, I’m well aware, and no doubt the girl’s dowry will be worthy enough to make even my old mouth water,” She replied, brusquely. “But we still have absolutely no idea what it is they want, what it is they’re planning, and why they seem intent on joining themselves to two powerful kingdoms whose loyalty to the crown is questionable at best.” 

Willas rolled his eyes. “Do they have to be planning anything, grandmother?” 

The Queen of Thorns scoffed, taking a hefty sip of arbor gold. “Gods, look at you, boy—one taste of silver hair, perky tits, and a tight cunny and already you’re prepared to tie yourself to whatever conspiracy these people are planning.” 

“Mother!” Father said, scandalized, though Willas was used to such jibes by the woman by now and merely frowned in disapproval. 

“It’s not that,” he said, almost petulantly. “I’m just saying that there’s still a possibility that they aren’t planning anything in particular—and if they are, what harm would a betrothal possibly do? If we find that whatever they are planning is not beneficial to us, we break it off, problem solved.” 

“And if you marry before then?” Grandmother said, almost bored. 

“Then we’re married, and she’s also a powerful hostage to use in case we need to.”

“My boy,” Grandmother groaned, seeming infinitely tired. “I see the way you look at that girl, and I hear the whispers of the servants at how the two of you are practically attached to the hip. You don’t have the heart to make her into a hostage, and when the time comes for whatever her family is planning, it will be _she_ who rules _you_.” 

“Well, surely if they are planning something against the crown it would be you who’d be the first to want in on such an alliance,” Willas said, trying a different tactic. “Seven hells, grandmother—you were the one who first called Robert _the usurper_!” 

“Him being a usurper does not erase the fact that he has the vast majority of the kingdoms and soldiers on his side. Tell me, boy, do you remember what happened the last time the Reach, Dorne, and the crownlands went against the Westerlands, North, Vale, Stormlands, and Riverlands?” Willas winced, slightly conceding the point. 

“Exactly,” Grandmother replied, seeing his reaction. “If we go up against all of them at once, we shall lose. We cannot afford to lose—not when a good chunk of our bannermen are more powerful than we are and still whisper behind our backs calling us ‘the stewards’. Why do you think the usurper married the dour Selyse Florent to his even dourer brother? It was a warning, you fools—that if we stepped one toe out of line, there was an old reacher family whose line stretched back thousands of more years than ours to take our place.”

“If she marries Daeron Hightower, the Reach shall be implicated regardless,” Willas reasoned.

“What the Hightowers do is their business—Gods only know they made that much clear during the Dance—if they wish to join up with the Velaryons, then they shall do so. But in that event, the reach may be implicated, but not House Tyrell.” 

“A betrothal would not truly implicate us in anything,” Willas ran a hand through his hair, frustratedly. “Think, grandmother! If they do go against King Robert and we decide that to join them is not to our benefit, we break it off, denounce them as traitors, and that is the end of it! If they don’t, we’ve allied ourselves with an old, respected house whose power grows by the day.”

“And how do you know exactly when they would carry out whatever they’re plotting? For all you know, you could be long wed by then, and then what would we do?” 

“If we join them, we reap the benefits,” Willas replied, simply. “If we decide not to, and remain loyal, we also reap the benefits. We would have a claim on Driftmark—as well as all the trade that comes with it—should they rebel against the King and we don’t, through any children Laena and I may have. Lordship of the island would surely be a great gift to House Tyrell for our services in aiding the crown against would-be-usurpers, would it not?” 

He knew the second Grandmother put her hand to her chin, and narrowed her eyes that he’d got her. The old woman grumbled and mumbled to herself for a few seconds before finally conceding with a nod of her head. “Very well,” She said, grudgingly. “Gods, Willas, you truly are besotted with this girl. I hope for your sake that she turns out to be a good investment.” 

Willas breathed out a sigh of relief, and he could see father next to him doing the same. “Thank you, grandmother. And I am not— _besotted_ ,” he scrunched up his face in distaste at the word, though judging from her knowing smirk, grandmother didn’t believe it. “I simply see the advantages of an alliance as outweighing the disadvantages. It does help that she’s quite beautiful,” he conceded, reluctantly. 

Lady Olenna Tyrell shrugged. “She’s pretty, but she’s no beauty to fight a war over,” Willas very much disagreed, but bit his tongue. “If you ask me it’s that ludicrous silver hair that makes people think otherwise. Nevertheless, it is a good match.” 

“What do you plan to do with Lord Velaryon, mother?” Father asked, as always deferring to her on matters of state. 

“Hmph,” She snorted, “I’ll tell you what I’d plan to do with him if I were only thirty years younger.” 

“Grandmother,” Willas grunted, not at all appreciating the jibe. 

Looking quite annoyed, she lifted up her palms in defense. “Yes, yes, alright—I’ll summon him to my solar tomorrow and there we can begin ironing out the finer details of this arrangement. There are three days left to this damned tourney after all, so I suspect he and I will be spending the remainder of that time there. If everything goes well, I suspect we’ll have an announcement ready by the tourney’s end. For the time being, I wish you and your silver lady a lifetime of happiness, dear.” 

Willas, for the first time since entering the room, allowed himself a smile. Grandmother’s concerns were of course not unwarranted by any means, while he himself was unsure of any potential conspiracy, it was nevertheless a possibility that she was wise to question. Whatever happened, House Tyrell would be ready. 

Willas knew that much. 

* * *

Sat at the high table, Willas spent the first half of dinner conversing with his betrothed and informing her of the match that was as good as settled. Though she had clearly been excited, judging from the spark in her eyes, she hid it well, and instead of jumping up and down offered him a courtly nod of her head and murmured pleasantries about how she looked forward to being his lady wife. While Grandmother still had to go through the nuts and bolts of it with Lord Lucerys—and no doubt would _that_ be a melee for the ages—he had little doubt in his mind that it would be settled by the tourney’s end. Grandmother may not have been keen on the match at first, but she had accepted, and she was never the type to accept something half-heartedly.

“So, tell me Laena,” he said to her, over the din in the great hall. “Are you very much looking forward to getting to see Highgarden?” 

“Very much so, Willas,” She replied, tucking a stray silver curl behind her ear, blushing in that way she did that drove him mad. Willas wondered if she knew the effect it had on him and did it on command. 

With who her father was, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“I’m glad,” He replied, genuinely happy. “You’ll love it there, I know it. Perhaps not as close to the sea as you’d like, but the Mander is right there, after all—and Oldtown is just a week’s ride away whenever you wish to go.”

“Of course,” Laena smiled. “I’m very excited for you to get to know the rest of my family—I think you and my brother Monford will get along quite well, you’re of a similar sort.” 

“Are we?” Willas quirked an eyebrow. He’d met Monford a few times when both boys had been at court and found him an agreeable sort. They’d never been great friends—Willas had been eight and he twelve when last they met, a stark difference—but they’d liked each other well enough. “Well, I’ll be happy to meet him. And…your other brother?” 

“Jacaerys?” She asked, smile turning slightly humorous. “He’s certainly lovely, but he’s also five. Not the most interesting company, mind you.”

Willas laughed, slightly. “I meant the other—Aurane, is it?” 

The smile that was on her face dimmed a bit and her eyes turned slightly wary. “You want to know about Aurane?” 

“He is your brother, is he not?” Willas asked, the picture of innocence. He knew grandmother was interested in the boy, and truth be told, he was as well. Lucerys Velaryon did not strike one as careless enough to father a bastard. Then again, all men had their weaknesses. 

Still, that one…it was a bit jarring to process. 

“He is,” she replied, carefully, though to her credit, didn’t let her wariness show overmuch. “We’re not terribly close though. Not as much as he and my brother.” 

Willas nodded, taking a sip of mulled wine. “Naturally, some siblings are closer than others. Garlan and I are inseparable, for instance, always have been, whereas the same can be said for Loras and Margaery.” 

“I’m closer with my sister,” Laena said, her smile broadening once more. “You’d enjoy her, I’m sure. She’s very bookish, loves to read about history and the like.” 

“Daenaera, is it?” She nodded. “Well, I’d love to meet her sometime. If she’s half as lovely as her elder sister, I’m sure we’ll get on famously.” 

She laughed then, and—to his surprise—playfully swatted his arm.

“Striking a Lord Paramount’s heir?” Willas asked, mock-scandalized. “Do you not know that the sentence for that is a flogging in the square?” 

Laena frowned, playing along. “Is it? Well, that won’t do—I only ever get flogged in the marketplace. I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” 

His eyes crinkled as he chuckled along with her. “I’d of course, hate to inconvenience you, my lady.”

“Pray you do not, my lord,” She smirked. “I can be quite a frightening sight when inconvenienced.” 

Willas knew she was half-jesting, but still did not doubt that. The girl had Targaryen blood in her on both sides, after all. “I’ll keep that in mind, my lady.”

“Now, if you would wish to indulge me,” She said, nodding to the crowd below. “If I am to be your wife, I ought to know which of your relatives I need to steer clear of.” 

Willas raised both his eyebrows, then let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, but where to begin…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiera Velaryon, Lucerys's sister, is Edric Dayne's mother in this, yes. Her relationship with her brother(s) will be expanded upon in the next lucerys POV, but I'd summarize her and Lucerys's dynamic as Barbrey Dustin/Ned Stark, but with a not-insignificant amount of sibling love/duty buried beneath layers of all that resentment. Family relationships in this story are going to be...complicated to say the least lol. Also, Shiera (in my head) is this actress who looks EXACTLY the way I picture her in my head: https://www.wikibiopic.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/Elizabeth-Mitchell-wiki-biography-age-net-worth.jpg  
> With this, the Velaryons are definitely looking to be a very attractive bunch lmao.  
> Thank you all for reading! And, as always, please do leave a comment! Next chapter will be Lucerys reuniting with all his siblings as well as his betrothal negotiations with Lady Olenna.


	13. Lucerys III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucerys reconnects with his siblings, finalizes Laena's betrothal with the Queen of Thorns, and dreams of a night that he struggles to forget.

Lucerys had never been meant to be a lord. 

Hells, he’d never even been meant to exist. 

His lord father, the late Aethan Velaryon, was a second son, who had appeared quite content not marrying at all. Aethan’s elder brother—His uncle Lucerys, his namesake—had already had four strong sons by the time Aethan was five-and-thirty, given to him by his Rosby wife. Everything appeared to be quite settled, all four boys were said to be the pride of Driftmark, particularly the heir, Vaemond. 

Until it wasn’t. 

One day, uncle Lucerys and all his sons had boarded a ship to Evenfall Hall, to see about a betrothal between Vaemond and Lady Evelyn Tarth. On the way, they passed Shipbreaker Bay, and well—the area wasn’t named that because of its calm waters. Their ship broke apart when they’d just gotten in sight of Tarth, and Lucerys and his four sons drowned, their bodies washing up on the shores of the sapphire isle in the following weeks. 

Father, who’d been left in charge of Driftmark as Castellan, had become its Lord because of one storm—his poor Rosby aunt had gone mad with grief and flung herself off of Starfish Tower after a sennight. At forty years of age, he’d had no children, nor a wife, and was not considered an ideal match by any of the eligible ladies due to his meager wealth, plain looks, and age. Instead, he looked east for a bride, and settled for Marra Rogare, at the time a beautiful Lyseni noble girl of six-and-ten—from a cadet branch of House Rogare—whose family operated a moderately powerful bank, though they were paupers compared to their glory days in the reign of Aegon Dragonbane. The same year they said their vows in the temple, Lucerys had been born, named in memory of his poor uncle. After almost a decade of miscarriages and stillbirths—mother was never the most hale of women—Rhaemond and Shiera were brought into the world just two years apart, red-cheeked and healthy. 

Lucerys had… _well_ , been a solitary child. He preferred to spend much of his time alone, engrossed in books, and had been accustomed to it, as he’d been largely an only child for nine years. He was fond of swordplay—when both his arms were functional—and hoped to be a knight, but he was just as content to spend the day within Driftmark’s library. 

Rhaemond and Shiera, on the other hand, were loud. Loud, impulsive, not to mention both a decade his junior. He’d never particularly liked or been able to connect with either growing up, and tended to avoid them as much as possible—especially after Summerhall. Over time, as they grew into adults, he thought them more annoyances than anything and was only too glad to ship Shiera off to Starfall when he got the chance. He supposed he loved them, but he absolutely did not like them. Rhaemond, he would say he tolerated, only because for all his bluster and foolhardiness, his brother was cunning in his own way and when they were able to stand each other they worked quite well together. Though Lucerys had put them into motion, the grand trade voyages had been Rhaemond’s idea in the first place. Nevertheless, none of them were close. 

That was why, while the Tyrell siblings were smiling and laughing across the hall—his lovely Laena sat with them, the pride of her house—the Velaryon siblings, reunited for the first time in nine years, were all as tense and taut as a bowstring. 

“Your daughter has grown into quite the woman, Luce,” Shiera said, using that dreadful pet name she knew he hated. “Very beautiful, it’s good she takes after her mother.” 

“She does,” Lucerys said, ignoring the childish jab at his looks. “Though she has her father’s mind.” 

Shiera hummed, noncommittally. Lysandra, blessedly, was too busy talking with Lady Alerie on her left side to notice any tension. Otherwise, she’d try to play the peacemaker, and, well—his poor wife had suffered enough rows between the Velaryon siblings. 

“I don’t like the way that Tyrell whelp is ogling my niece,” Rhaemond said, darkly, nursing a cup of mulled wine. 

Lucerys almost laughed. While he and his brother didn’t get on particularly well, Rhaemond doted on both of his nieces and was close with Monford, as well as passing fond of Aurane. 

“That tyrell whelp may very well be your good-nephew in a few years,” replied Lucerys, popping a honeyed strawberry into his mouth. 

Lucerys had been shocked by Lysandra’s suggestion of the match, as he had wanted Willas for little Dany, and had never thought the heir to Highgarden would look twice at his daughter—not that Laena wasn’t beautiful, but Lord Willas was said to be a solitary sort of man. Nevertheless, the match, while by no means a certainty with regard to their larger plans, gave them much more than the foot in the door Rhaemond’s match with Desmera did. 

Daenerys would still wed, of course. While betrothing her to the Hightower boy he wanted for Laena would secure the reach completely—with the Redwynes and Hightowers with them, the Tyrells would have little to no choice but to join their cause—he couldn’t help but wonder if that was necessary. What if the Tyrells joined regardless, which was very much a possibility, especially with this betrothal. They would need the Reach, true enough, but even if they won with only the Reach and Dorne, Viserys’s hold on the kingdoms would need to be consolidated with matches, chief of those being his sister. 

If Edmure Tully remained unwed, perhaps he would do, but Lucerys brushed the thought away. Tully was a smidge too old for Daenerys, and the Tullys’ power in the Riverlands was far from consolidated, not to mention the fact that the heir to Winterfell and all his siblings being half-Tully significantly diminished any chances of such an alliance. Perhaps after the war was won it could be a possibility, but not before.

A Blackwood, perhaps? They were as powerful as the Tullys, if not more, and could probably rally a decent chunk of the riverlords to their side, not to mention that they shared blood with the Targaryens and were loyalists during the rebellion. 

An Arryn would be the real prize, however. Old Jon Arryn was the only thing holding the alliance together, and at four-and-seventy it was only a matter of a few years before he finally snuffed it. His son, the sickly little Robert, was by all accounts weak and would most likely not live to see manhood. Harrold Hardyng, Jon’s nephew after a fashion, would ascend then. A boy with no connections to the Starks or Tullys, who would without a doubt be able to be influenced. He’d be surrounded by older valemen who would vehemently oppose ever supporting a Targaryen, but at the end of the day, those fools took their honor too seriously not to obey their lord’s demands—and a match with the King’s sister would no doubt quiet them down a bit. 

If they could capture the vale, they would have close to two-hundred thousand swords on their side, and the usurper would not stand a chance. 

He was dragged out of his thoughts by Shiera’s voice. 

“So, it’s settled then?” 

Lucerys turned to his sister. “Not officially, but it’s only a matter of ironing out the details with Lady Olenna.” 

“It was certainly suggested quickly enough,” Shiera supplied. 

“That’s not uncommon,” Lucerys replied. “They clearly took to each other, and she would make a suitable match. Most betrothals take more time, but that’s only because they’re usually being resolved through ravens. Whereas I have the Lady Olenna and Lord Tyrell right here.”

“Mine certainly seemed to take mere days,” Shiera’s tone was bitter, and Lucerys suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still upset about that—did that match not give you your two children?” 

Shiera scoffed. “It did, but—“

“But what?” Lucerys cut her off. “You should be on your _knees_ thanking me rather than sniping at me for, what, doing my duty as your lord and brother and finding you a good match?” 

“I never even got to meet the man you made me marry until my wedding day!” Shiera hissed, furiously. “I was a woman of five-and-twenty, not some blushing maid of two-and-ten, for all I knew you were selling me off to some drunken whoremonger.” 

Lucerys scoffed, disdainfully. “Has Lord Dayne not been to your taste, dear sister?” 

Shiera shifted in her seat. “Aurelian has been good to me,” she conceded, grudgingly. 

“Then content yourself with that, and spare me your histrionics. I did not come to this damned island to be driven mad over whatever petulant nonsense you’ve decided to blame me for.” 

Rhaemond groaned. “Gods, can the both of you give it a rest? You’re giving me a damned headache.” 

“Apologies, dear brother,” Shiera said, not sorry at all. “I know you need your wits about you to deal with your lovely betrothed—tell me, has my good-sister been weaned or is she still suckling off the teats of her wet nurse?” 

Lucerys hid a snort in his goblet of water at the furious scowl the quip garnered from Rhaemond. Truthfully, Shiera’s sharp tongue did her no favors, it was the reason he’d sent her off to Dorne rather than kept her in the crownlands—that and the alliance—they tended to like their women impertinent over there. 

“You think I want to marry that girl? She’s a child! It’s all his fault,” he nodded over to Lucerys, far too childishly. “Him and his bloody politics.” 

“My bloody politics are the reason you’ll have Spicetown, brother. I’d hope you’d be a little more grateful.” 

“I am,” Rhaemond said, petulantly scrunching up his face. Lucerys suspected he’d need to covertly order the servants to water down any more wine served to his brother. “Do I have to marry a babe to get it though?” 

“She will be a woman grown in five years, Rhaemond. Father was older than you are when he married mother at the same age.” 

Rhaemond grimaced. “I still have trouble wrapping my head around that—mother always seemed to be of an age with him.” 

“By the time you were born, the gap was significantly less noticeable, but Mother always was an old soul.” 

Marra Rogare had been bright-eyed and gentle in Lucerys’s first years of life, he remembered her singing him old Lyseni lullabies as a child. But the years of stillbirths and miscarriages took their toll, and she grew to be a hard woman. She and father grew to love each other, thankfully, and worked well together. Father, the more lenient, gentle parent, and Mother the colder, more sobering one.

Shiera emptied her goblet, though by the scowl on her face she didn’t enjoy it whatsoever. “Gods, Arbor gold is _vile_. What did they pour a whole vat of sugar into this?” 

Lucerys chuckled. “I see you’ve grown Dornish in your taste for wine.” 

“Well, it’s the truth,” she said. “There’s nothing quite as good as a dornish red.” Rhaemond lifted his glass of arbor gold in mock cheers to that.

“Don’t let the Redwynes hear you say that.” 

“Hmph,” Shiera responded, shrugging. She signaled over one of the serving girls. “Get me the strongest ale you have,” she whispered. 

“How are the rest of my nieces and nephews?” Shiera asked, seeming genuinely curious. 

“Monford’s just wed the Martell girl, I’m sure you’ve heard.” 

Shiera nodded. “She’s my niece, after a fashion. I’ve only met her once though—sweet girl.” 

Lucerys blinked. He’d almost forgotten the connections between the princess and his sister. It was quite amusing to him that Rhaenys was both her niece because of Monford as well as by virtue of being Ashara’s ‘daughter’. 

“Yes, well, he appears to be happy with the match.” The boy’s last letters from Driftmark had been significantly less tense on the subject of his wife, and it appeared that they had truly taken a liking to one another. Lucerys was glad for that, not many found love in highborn marriages, after all. Most would consider themselves beyond lucky to have only a friendship like he and Lysandra. “Daenaera is well, as is Jacaerys.” 

“I haven’t seen her since she was a babe—haven’t even met _him_ ,” She replied, and her voice turned slightly guilty. “ _Perhaps_ , I am overdue for a visit,” it sounded as if each word was forcefully being pulled out of her mouth. 

“You are always welcome, Shiera,” His voice was tense as well, but at the end of the day, she _was_ his sister. It would not do to only see her once every decade. Were mother here, she’d smack all three of them on the head and lock them in a broom closet until they made peace. 

“Ser Rhaemond!” Desmera’s excited voice came into his hearing, and he found himself smirking at the long-suffering this elicited from his brother. 

“Yes, my lady?” He bit out.

Desmera, oblivious to Rhaemond’s misgivings, beamed happily. “The dancing is starting, would you honor me with one dance, ser?” 

Before Rhaemond could come up with some weak excuse, Lucerys cut in: “Oh, I’m sure my brother would be delighted to accompany you, Lady Desmera. Go on Rhaemond,” he said, urging a scowling Rhaemond out of his seat, “Dance with your dear lady.” 

Rhaemond looked if he wanted to murder him right then and there, but after a few seconds of glaring, grunted in assent and took Lady Desmera’s proffered hand, allowing himself to be led to the dance floor. 

“I have to say I don’t think I’ll ever tire of teasing him over this,” Shiera smiled, taking a sip of her ale. 

Lucerys smirked. “Nor I.” 

* * *

Upon the morning after the feast, the festivities resumed, another tilt would begin in a few hours, and Lucerys would begin a tilt of his own with Olenna Tyrell in the meantime. He anticipated that talks would take up the remainder of the tourney—and be filled with thinly-veiled insults—so he took the opportunity to take a walk about the gardens with his daughter. 

Fathers should never admit to having favorites, he knew, but Laena was his. He loved each and every one of his children, but Laena had been somewhat of a miracle. Lysandra had had trouble conceiving for a while—Monford’s birth had been harsh on her—and the nine years that separated Monford and Laena had been scattered with a few miscarriages, as well as a girl, sweet Aelinor, who had appeared healthy for the first three years of her life but was then taken by a fever. Laena’s birth had been strenuous, and many thought the girl would not live to see a moon, but she had pulled through and grown into the most beautiful girl in the kingdoms, inheriting her mother’s Celtigar looks combined with the Velaryon temperament. She was clever, kind, cunning, and she knew when to be bold and when to let matters lie. It was all he ever wanted in a child. 

“You’re happy with the match then, dearest?” 

His daughter turned to him, her blue eyes lit up with joy, and nodded. “Yes, father. Lord Willas is quite gallant. Not to mention the opportunities such an alliance brings our house.” 

“Of course,” Lucerys nodded. “But, I’m glad you have taken a liking to him, Laena. Our house comes first, but your happiness also matters a great deal to me.” 

She nodded, smiling up at him. At five-and-ten, she truly was an incredible beauty. Already the reacher lords had dubbed her ‘The Siren of Driftmark’ for her looks. He supposed he should have expected such, but his mind had been far too preoccupied with Rhaemond’s betrothal that he’d not thought to how well his daughter would do at a real court. She’d not only got herself betrothed to the heir of the reach, but young Margaery followed her around like a duckling and many of the girls looked at her in awe—it reminded him of the way people used to chase after Cersei Lannister when she was still a young maid.

All of this, with a swell of pride, made him realize just how high his family had risen in a matter of a decade. No longer were they a house fallen from grace, a cautionary tale of the dangers of hubris, an example of the fluidity of Westerosi politics. Now, they were back where they belonged. In a few years, they’d displace the Lannisters and reclaim the title of the wealthiest family in the land—especially once Lucerys got his hands on Casterly Rock. 

He would have it sacked, all its treasures stripped and loaded onto Velaryon ships, and then put it to the torch, much like High Tide was during the dance. Its ruins would serve as a warning, Viserys’s very own Harrenhal—a reminder of what happens when you cross the dragon. The Lannisters would perhaps be removed as wardens of the west, or he’d give control of the west and the ruined rock to Tywin’s stunted son, the ultimate humiliation. He’d met Lord Tyrion before, and found him to be clever and affable—if crude—truthfully he would not be a horrible choice for the warden of the west. Deformities of the body do not matter as long as one has the mind to rule. But it would humiliate Tywin, and destroy his legacy. 

That would be enough. 

“Nevertheless,” Lucerys said to his daughter, tilting her chin up with his good hand. “I would hope you don’t lose your head over this. I am glad you are fond of each other, but until you are wed, keep him at somewhat of a distance. Trust is a fragile thing, dearest, it is not to be given easily.” 

She blinked, pale blue eyes staring up at him in slight surprise, but then nodded deferentially. “Of course, Lord father. I mean to keep our House’s interests above all in my mind.” 

Lucerys smiled, thinly. “Very good, dearest. One day, his house will be yours, and it will be your duty to keep them in mind as well, but do not forget, you are a Velaryon of Driftmark until the day you die. What are our words?” 

“The old, the true, and the brave,” She recited, fervently. 

“Exactly,” he replied. “We were already old, true, and brave when the roses were but seedlings. Do not forget that.” 

“Never,” she raised an eyebrow at him, leveling him with a haughty stare so similar to his own. “I am a Velaryon of Driftmark. I will never forget my true loyalties.” 

His smile widened. “Good.”

* * *

It was the third day of his and Lady Olenna’s betrothal negotiations, and the last day before he had to sail back to Driftmark. 

His head hurt. 

Lady Olenna had jumped into the negotiations with an unexpected vigor, clearly having prepared for everything under the sun from Laena’s dowry to Willas’s fertility. 

“Rest assured on that front,” she said, chewing on an apple. “The boy’s leg may be mangled but his cock works just fine—I should know, I walked in on him and a serving maid not two years past.” 

“Lady Olenna,” Lucerys sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to gather the last vestiges of his patience. “I am sure Willas is more than able to produce heirs, I need no reminder, thank you.” 

The old harridan shrugged. “If you say so.” 

“Now, back to the dowry,” Lucerys said, opening up a scroll and pointing out some key things on it to her. “Two-hundred bolts of YiTish silk, two-hundred bolts of Myrish lace, two-hundred bolts of Lorathi velvet, Laena’s weight in YiTish jade, twice her weight in gold, thrice her weight in silver, and twenty-five finely crafted Velaryon galleys.”

He and Olenna had been going back and forth on this for days now, haggling over the dowry like two bloody fishwives instead of respectable nobles. Lucerys could more than spare the expense, true, but for all his newfound wealth, he was still cautiously frugal—becoming wealthy did not eliminate the instincts he developed when he began as a lord with relatively modest coffers. And for all the love he bore Laena, he did not want to spend more than he needed to on this match—especially when the Tyrell’s future loyalty was still very much in question. 

Olenna looked over the scroll with narrowed eyes, donning her pince-nez and mumbling to herself at all the figures, before finally nodding curtly. 

“That should do,” she said, and Lucerys thanked all seven gods this was over. The woman was entertaining enough, but only in small doses—three straight days of nothing but her barbs and her mumbles had made him want to jump out the bloody window. 

“Is it settled, then?” Lucerys asked, making to stand, but her voice stopped him. 

“Not quite.”

“Not quite?” He repeated, just about done with this damned woman and her nagging—No wonder her husband rode off a cliff. “What is it now? I’ve told you a thousand times I am not going to go over two hundred bolts of YiTish silk, it’s frankly already an obscene amount—“

“—Oh don’t get your smallclothes in a twist, boy, it’s not that,” She said, waving away his coming tirade, carelessly. “We still haven’t settled the matter of the wedding date.” 

“Ah,” he said, straightening in his seat. “There is none—at least as of yet. Laena will stay with her family for a few years yet” 

“And why?” Olenna asked, puzzled. “The girl will reach her majority in less than three moons, wouldn’t it be wise for your family to ride back with us to Highgarden so they may wed now and we can get on with this?” 

Lucerys knew he could not answer that question with the truth unless he wanted himself hanged for treason. 

“Because I’m her father, and I command it so,” He said, simply. “Her eldest brother has just returned from an eight-year stint abroad, and youngest brother is but five, I would have him know his sister for a few years yet before I send her off to the Reach.”

The Queen of Thorns scoffed. “Oh, Lord Velaryon, out of all the acts you put on, ‘sentimental family man’ is not your best. Do you truly expect me to believe that?” 

“Do I need you to?” Lucerys asked back. “Laena will not wed Willas until I deem her ready, and she is not. My eldest daughter has been sheltered, I would like to have her trained more in the subtleties of court before I have her shipped off to Highgarden.” 

“She seemed to do perfectly well while she was here,” Lady Olenna reasoned, speaking as if she were humoring a sullen little boy, “A credit to your training of her, I’m sure. Nevertheless, I suppose you are her father and know best. Should you wish for a long engagement, I am inclined to agree…on one condition.” 

Lucerys raised a silver eyebrow. “Name it.” 

“The girl will spend a year at Highgarden—it doesn’t have to be now, nor right before her marriage,” she said, as Lucerys was about to cut in, “but sometime during this engagement if you truly insist on dragging it on for so long. She will get to know her future home, as well as her betrothed, and accustom herself to the duties of the lady of the household.” 

Lucerys weighed the option in his head. On the one hand, it was truly a fair thing to ask, particularly given the fact that Rhaemond would be taking the heir to the arbor back with him to Driftmark and then, in a few years, Desmera. But this was his daughter, and he wasn’t going to have her safety assured by a minor—if close—relation being at his disposal.

“I will agree to the terms on a condition of my own,” Lucerys replied, after a minute, and when Lady Olenna waved at him to go on impatiently, he spoke again: “When Laena comes to Highgarden, Margaery will come to Driftmark.” 

The Queen of Thorns blinked in surprise, then snorted derisively. “And why would Margaery need to spend a year in some damp castle in the crownlands?” 

Ignoring the slight against his ancestral home, Lucerys smiled thinly. “She would not simply be in ‘some damp castle’ my lady, she would be at the newly renovated High Tide as a companion to my good-daughter and my son. Surely a year spent building a bond with people who we both know will be the wealthiest house in all the realm in a matter of years is not a year wasted, especially with the proximity to King’s Landing. If her brother Loras ever wished to visit, Storm’s End is also not terribly far.’’

The old woman rubbed her chin thoughtfully. While she didn’t look too pleased with the arrangement, she should have known Lucerys would not let his eldest daughter be at the mercy of the Tyrells for a year without significant leverage. 

“Very well,” she conceded, grudgingly. 

“Good, so I believe we’re set?” Lucerys asked, standing. 

“Yes,” she replied, then sighed and bent over her desk, signing the finalized betrothal agreement, muttering on about ‘sleek silver-haired snakes’.

That night, to the slight shock and whispers of many in the great hall, the betrothal of Lady Laena Velaryon and Lord Willas Tyrell was announced to all in presence. 

Lucerys didn’t miss the grimace on Renly Baratheon’s face. 

* * *

_The wine is sweet._

_Those are Lucerys’s first thoughts. The wine father usually has in his stores is rather sour, and he can’t really bear the taste. Father says it’s because he’s but a boy, and when he grows he’ll surely get accustomed to it, but Lucerys doesn’t think so. Even this sweet wine—drunk out of curiosity—isn’t to his taste._

_He’d best stick with water._

_Lucerys hears a rustling behind him and turns just in time to see the door open, and when he sees who is on the other side of it he curses himself. Prince Maegor is a good man, definitely not like his father, but he has a sharp tongue all the same, so it comes as no surprise when he smirks at the sight of Lucerys drinking what’s leftover of the King’s wine from supper._

_“Well, well,” he says, his purple eyes gleaming in amusement. “Is the Star of Driftmark truly drinking leftover wine? Tsk, tsk,” He smiles. “That won’t do, we can’t have our favorite cupbearer stumbling around the palace can we?”_

_Lucerys scowls at the moniker. He’d ridden in a tourney a year ago as a mystery knight. He’d been lanky for a boy of eight, and a good rider, so he’d thought he could pull through. Lucerys had been determined to win the crown of flowers, and make Princess Rhaella his queen of love and beauty. He’d hoped to ask King Aegon for her hand afterward, after proving he would be worthy for her in the tournament. Sadly, whilst Lucerys had (miraculously) bested a Frey knight who’d been deep in his cups and could barely sit straight atop his horse, he’d been knocked to the ground by some landed knight from the Stormlands: Bonifer Hasty._

_To add insult to injury, Hasty had the gall to crown Rhaella himself. She was a princess of the blood! Fit for a Velaryon of pure valyrian blood and noble pedigree, not some poor hedge knight. He’d smarted over the defeat, left heartbroken in the dirt as Princess Rhaella had smiled and put the crown atop her head. But then, to his surprise, after his identity had been revealed, the King had been impressed by what he called his ‘pluckiness’ and invited him to serve as cupbearer. A great honor, to be sure, for the past hundred years the presence of House Velaryon at the royal court has been dwindling, so this was surely good for his house. But he would get this position without his princess’s hand in marriage—though he did get a laugh from her and a chaste kiss on the cheek that left him blushing for weeks after—any hopes to the contrary had been effectively dashed weeks after the tourney when Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella became betrothed._

_He likes Prince Aerys though, Lucerys does. A bit vain, and has the typical Targaryen penchant for overblown melancholia and theatrics, but he is affable and charming enough._

_Nevertheless, after the tourney the courtiers had taken to calling him the ‘Star of Driftmark’ for the way his armor supposedly gleamed in the moonlight—a bad joke, his armor had been dirty and ill-fitting, borrowed from several knights—when he rode in the tourney. He thinks it was started up by Princess Rhaelle but has no way to prove it as such._

_“I would never stumble around the palace,” Lucerys says, petulantly. “I was just having a taste, that’s all.”_

_“Right,” Maegor smirks infuriatingly then. “Well, back to your duties, the king has summoned us all to the great hall.”_

_Lucerys notices how Maegor doesn’t refer to King Aegon as his uncle, but the king. There was a strained relationship there, he knew, for Maegor was passed over in favor of his uncle for being Aerion Brightflame’s son, as well as an infant at the time of the great council. Maegor has yet to marry, though he's in talks with Lord Elys Waynwood to wed his eldest daughter, Jeyne. Lucerys hopes that happens rather soon, as a daughter of Prince Maegor would surely be a good match for him—though he would never love her like Rhaella—and a way to bind him to the royal house properly. He doesn’t want to wed that horrid Celtigar girl his father picked out for him, she always steps on his toes on purpose when they dance!_

_Though there is much to criticize about_ _them, Lucerys sometimes wishes he was a Targaryen. The ruling house is weak and needs stronger alliances desperately, but they still manage to stun him with their otherworldly beauty and air of regality. They have their problems, and he finds himself annoyed with them more often than not, but they surely trump his brother and sister who are mere babes and can’t even feed themselves. However, he is not a Targaryen. Lucerys is a handsome enough boy, and if his mother is to be believed he’d grow even more so, but no Targaryen man is handsome—they are ethereal. epicene. Godlike. The Velaryons had once been little more than a cadet branch to House Targaryen, so inseparable they were—Lucerys plans to make that so again._

_Coming upon the great hall, Lucerys catches a glimpse of all the people gathered. There’s the dowager Princess Daenora—Aerion’s widow and Maegor’s mother, Princess Rhaella, Prince Aerys, Prince Duncan and Lady Jenny, Princess Shaera, Prince Jaehaerys, Queen Betha, and King Aegon. In the center of the great hall stands a pyre, a clutch of six dragon eggs gathered atop it, to his shock._

_Everything after he first catches sight of the eggs happens so fast. First, the King gives a long speech about the Targaryen dragons and their might, and how they will put everything to rights and restore their hold on the kingdoms once more. The pyre is lit—to the trepidation of Princess Daenora, and Lucerys can’t blame her, what with memories of her mad husband and his obsession with dragons surely racing through her mind._

_Then, the fire grows brighter, and brighter, and larger and larger until it is consuming the entire room. No one can escape, because the heat melts the steel bars on the doors and fuses them together. Everyone is clamoring, gasping for air, pillars and columns collapsing, and Lucerys—always a quiet child—begins to weep, because it’s just so hot and he’s scared and he wants his mother._

_Maegor and Daenora are the first he sees dying, a falling pillar crushing both mother and son beneath it. Black Betha goes next, the smoke having taken its toll and suffocating her. Aegon, Shaera, and Duncan’s screams as they burn can be heard so clearly. Lucerys, however, is by some miracle still standing, even though he still cries as it grows hotter, but then, he feels it before he sees it coming—a beam lit with green fire breaks off from the ceiling, and he feels his arm snap in two and his flesh burn as it lands atop him._

_He screams, but Lucerys isn’t sure whether he makes a sound at all. The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt, and it becomes so much that he feels his eyelids droop, and falls unconscious, not at all wanting to die but realizing that the end is upon him._

_By some miracle, he feels the pressure on his arm disappear—though it still hurts to the seven hells—and a pair of strong arms pick him up from the ground, and when he opens his eyes to see the identity of his savior, it is the weathered face of Ser Duncan the Tall. Duncan carries him out of the burning palace, to a knoll of grass a decent distance away where the unconscious body of Prince Jaehaerys lies beside, though he’s still alive. Lady Jenny is there, crumpled up on the grass and sobbing in a manner that can only be described as guttural, though she’s blessedly unscathed._

_Ser Duncan leaves, and Lucerys wants to tell him there’s no one left, that he’ll catch his death there, but his voice is nothing but a low rasp from the smoke he’s breathed in, and he watches as the giant knight disappears into the burning palace, never to be seen again._

_He wants so badly to look away from the magnificent palace of Summerhall burning, but the sight is so astonishing his eyes are glued to it. The smoke fills the night air, columns of it rising to block out the moon, the burning palace the only light for miles. Lucerys thinks to let himself fall unconscious again, to wait for help to arrive because he doesn’t have the strength to do anything—his arm feels so awful, and surely it will feel worse once the shock and adrenaline wear off—but then a piercing scream that cuts through Lady Jenny’s sobs sends a blast of energy through him, and he stands up with all the strength he has left in his body._

_Rhaella._

_He runs—or rather, limps—to the source of the sound, downhill from the knoll, further away from the palace. Though the palace disappears as he makes his way downhill, the light it emits is plain as day, so he can make his way safely through the grove of trees. He runs for what seems like ages until Lucerys comes across three heads. One is a mousy brown, the old maester Gyldayn, but two are silver—Aerys, with his eyes wide in shock and ash clinging to his clothes, tear tracks on his cheeks; and Rhaella, laid down beside him, her face frozen in an expression only describable as sheer shock, tears continuously falling from her eyes. He peers down slightly only to gasp when he sees the bundle in her arms, a third head of silver._

_“Rhaegar,” Rhaella whimpers brokenly when she looks up to face him. “His name…is Rhaegar.”_

_Lucerys doesn’t know what to say to that, but he nods numbly nonetheless, the only sound aside from the flames, Lady Jenny’s wailing, and their quiet sobs being the blood that’s dripping from his ruined arm onto the soil._

Lucerys woke with a gasp, clutching at his mangled shoulder wildly, fully expecting to be nine years old again on that grassy knoll in Summerhall, only to find himself in his guest chambers at the Arbor, blissfully alone. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief, still panting heavily, feeling as if he’d just run himself ragged. 

What most unsettled Lucerys about this nightmare was just how different it had felt from the previous ones. This one had been more vivid—an exact recounting of the night—whereas all the others had been snippets or exaggerations, and they hadn’t felt anywhere near as _real_. 

He hadn’t dreamt of Summerhall in ages. Why now?

Putting his head in his hands, Lucerys inhaled deeply, rubbing at his eyes as if to will away the memories of the dream, and that cursed night altogether. 

Summerhall was a memory that he longed to forget, yet it clung to him stubbornly like flies to dung. No matter what he did, he was never far from recalling the salty taste of his own tears, or the pungent smell of smoke permeating the air. He could scarcely recall other things about being nine years old, but for some reason the memory he most wanted to leave behind he could describe in painstaking detail. 

Aerys and Rhaella had been growing warmer in their marriage to each other. Though it would’ve never blossomed into love, he truly believed that they had found an understanding with each other. Summerhall did away with any chances of that. Everyone pointed to the Defiance at Duskendale as being when Aerys finally went stark raving mad, but Lucerys had been his friend for decades before that, and he knew that Summerhall was where the seeds had been planted. After that, his mooning after Lady Joanna became less humorous and more obsessive, his behavior with Rhaella grew curter, though it wasn’t until around the fourth miscarriage that he truly began treating her badly and growing more paranoid. 

So much had been lost that night, and here stood Lucerys, the last survivor. The only person left to remember that tragedy, to remember the night that mighty House Targaryen dwindled down to a frail king, two traumatized children, and an infant.

Whatever the dream meant, Lucerys wanted none of it. All he wanted to do was to go back to sleep so he could return to his own castle by the morrow. The Reach was filled with snakes, and it would be good to be back in his own walls where threats of espionage were scarce. 

As he laid back down to sleep, Lucerys tried to ignore the taste of ashes in his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Lucerys POV for this arc of the story! Viserys is the next chapter, then we'll get two chapters in entirely new locations with new characters. Very excited to move on to the next phase!  
> Please comment if you liked it, ya'll. I don't wanna be a nag but I don't write this for myself lol, I want to know what you all think of it!  
> Thanks for reading!


	14. Viserys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserys quarrels with Lord Velaryon over a controversial scheme, and plots with his niece and good-nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, did you miss me? Bet you did--anyway, here's another chapter. Almost done with this arc--just three more to go!

That morning started as any other. 

Viserys woke up at the crack of dawn, observing his rooms with a sleep-addled gaze. The window was fully submerged, the only view being a solid blue-green tinge that swayed and swished with every second, meaning the tide was high today, to his content. His rooms were in the lower levels of Driftmark, barely a step above the servant’s quarters—which meant that whenever the water rose, the view from the window would switch from the sky to beneath the sea—but they were spacious enough. 

Yawning, he hopped out of bed, making his way to the chest at its edge. Viserys donned a brown doublet with a seahorse sigil etched onto it—courtesy of Dany and her newly improved sewing skills—and a yellow cloak, as he always wore. After he finished dressing, he made his way out of his rooms and up to the higher levels of the castle, ready to start his work.

Just like every morning, he went to the kitchens first in order to help coordinate the meals for the day—Lord Velaryon was an impossibly picky eater, he’d noted—as well as taking stock of the kitchens and hearing from the cooks which ingredients needed to be replenished in the stores and which they could do without. After his visit to the kitchens, he took a list of said ingredients to the high steward’s solar, laid them flat on his desk, and continued about his day. 

Aside from the occasional dispute between servants that needed mediating, working at Driftmark was what Viserys imagined would be considered some of the most predictable, stable work in the Kingdoms. Lord Velaryon ran a remarkably tight ship, and his head steward, Richard Lonmouth, shared his Lord’s philosophy of ruling. Viserys, since the age of ten, had never gone a day without work—first it was small things, of course, like assisting the cooks as a scullion, polishing the garrison’s armor. With time, however, it had morphed into something different. He was effectively Lord Velaryon’s voice when it came to the servants—Ser Richard, of course, ultimately did the lion’s share of the work when it came to approving shipments and ordering goods and handling wages, but Viserys was the one on the ground. 

This time on the ground had humbled him a great deal. He was but a spoiled boy when he’d first come to Driftmark, and all of his worst traits—lack of patience, quickness to anger, snobbery—had not been quelled whatsoever, and in fact, had been made worse by his parent’s fates. One day, however, Lord Velaryon had put an end to it when he’d dragged him by the ear to an empty chamber for pummeling a loudmouthed page. 

_“Have you gone completely and utterly mad?!” The door barely slams behind Lord Velaryon as he finishes saying the words._

_Viserys, feeling the sting at the insult—the fact that the pretenders to this day claim his father as mad is a sore spot for him—scowls fiercely at the lord, uncowed. “I did what was right! My father—“_

_“—I am your father,” The older man cut him off, a look of warning on his face, but Viserys refused to listen anymore._

_“He insulted my family!” The page’s sneering voice speaking of the mad king echoing in his head made him furious all over again. “I am a dragon—“_

_Viserys only sees the furious expression on Lord Velaryon’s face for a second before he feels the sharp sting of his hand on his cheek, and he barrels to the floor from the sheer force of the blow._

_Before he can even gather his wits, he feels a hand bunch itself up into his jerkin and pull him up roughly, so that he’s neither standing nor sitting, but suspended on his knees._

_“You are nothing,” The harsh words—whispered caustically through Lord Velaryon’s teeth—make him recoil slightly, but his barrage continues, “but the mistake that I whelped on some nameless Lyseni girl, who I am raising in my castle out of pity. You are no dragon—you’re not even a bloody seahorse—you are a Waters,” That last word hurts harder than the rest, “A bastard. Bastards do not assault noble boys—no matter how small their rank—because of a few mocking words said on a dead house that they only claim a tendril of a connection to through ancestors. That is how you get us all killed, you fool!” He leans in closer, and Viserys struggles to keep his face composed, “Let me make this very clear, the next time I hear you speak of dragons in a context that is anything other than a history lesson—I will show you what the wrath of one looks like.”_

He’d left him, Lord Velaryon had, crying in the cellar that day. But Viserys had learned his lesson—however bitter a truth it was to swallow—he was a bastard. A Waters. A sinful, lustful creature—if the septons and septas’ suspicious looks were anything to go by. Though his position and all the animus it garnered him from everyone was difficult to adjust to, it was normal for him now. Viserys could not often remember what it was like to be a prince, to truly be Viserys Targaryen. Aurane Waters—dutiful, somber Aurane—that was who he was, or at least, the image that he projected unto the world. But for all that he’d mostly forgotten him, Viserys Targaryen still lived inside of him. Somedays Viserys broke through the facade, and he wanted nothing more than to sail down to the Red Keep and slay the usurper himself. Other days, Aurane and the life that he led was all he thought of, all he knew. It was a mask he wore, not genuine in the least, but comfortable—so comfortable that ofttimes he forgot it was even there. There was a constant struggle in him—was he Viserys? Was he Aurane? Did it matter? He didn’t know. 

Rhaenys’s arrival had certainly changed many things, and he was starting to feel the mask of Aurane—which he’d long grown accustomed to—chafe. Every story they laughed over of their time in the red keep chasing Balerion, breaking their fast in the gardens with mother, playing around with cyvasse pieces since neither of them knew the first thing about the game itself—it all woke something in him he’d damn near forgotten was there. A dragon, waiting to be reborn. 

But he had no dragon—not truly. All Viserys had was an egg, an egg that was infuriatingly warm and refused to hatch. He thought it rather poetic: the egg was practically a symbol of his own kingly ambitions—so close, and yet so far away. 

Shaking away the negative thoughts, he continued about his work for the day. Lord Velaryon had arrived from the Arbor barely a sennight past, with a betrothal to Willas Tyrell settled not for his second ‘daughter’ but his first. It had surprised Viserys—Laena was undoubtedly beautiful of course, as well as charming and clever, but he couldn’t have imagined such a match being proposed. Then again, Willas was crippled, and Laena was not only the daughter of an old, respected house, but had a good amount of royal blood in her through not only Lord Lucerys, but through her grandmother, Princess Vaella Targaryen—Lady Lysandra’s mother. The Tyrells were desperate for king’s blood in their line, though their power was more or less stable in the Reach, many still sneered at them as stewards and upjumped servants. And with their support for the losing side in the rebellion, they were in the most precarious position they’d been in since they’d solidified their rule over the reach in the wake of the Blackfyre rebellions. A decent amount of royal blood, as well as lowered tariffs on trade from Driftmark, would no doubt do them wonders. 

Still, no matter how he tried to focus on other things as he went about his work, the troubles with the egg still nagged at him. Rhaenys spent nearly all her spare time in the library searching for anything on how to hatch them, but so far she’d not been able to come up with anything. 

His frustration at the matter ebbed away at his patience so much that by mid-morning he decided enough was enough. They’d decided not to tell Lord Velaryon anything until they’d come up with something substantial, but Viserys was certain that he could help. Perhaps he’d be able to order a tome from the far east, or send for an Essosi mage, something, _anything_. 

His mind made up, Viserys knocked on the door to Lord Velaryon’s rooms—he woke up every morning precisely at the hour of the robin, so he knew he should be awake or getting ready. Normally he would wait until he’d begun working, but the matter was too urgent, in Viserys' mind at least. 

With a muffled ‘ _Enter_ ,’ Viserys opened the doors to find Lord Lucerys getting dressed—or struggling to. He was fruitlessly attempting to put his mangled arm through his robe, and Viserys crossed over to his place quickly to assist.

Lord Velaryon’s arm was rather unsightly, but with the years he’d spent serving him as cupbearer he’d got used to it. It was much thinner than his right arm, as well as about a hand shorter, and the skin from his shoulder to just above his elbow was covered in gruesome burn scars, ugly pink flesh pocked with craters and deep cracks. He knew it had happened at Summerhall, a fact that made him more than a little anxious to ask him about hatching dragon eggs, considering the entire reason his arm was like that was because of a failed attempt at doing so, but he rallied nonetheless. Lord Velaryon would trust him on this. 

“Bend it,” Viserys said, holding the left side of the robe open, “Place your elbow close to your side, and face the hand toward the sleeve.” 

He did so, and in one slick motion—not without a pained grimace from Lord Lucerys, he was finally able to put the arm through the sleeve. 

“Thank you,” Lord Velaryon said, slightly rolling his shoulder with a quiet groan. 

“Has it been ailing you more than usual?” Viserys asked, concerned. 

The older man nodded, “I’ve been putting far too much stress on it, but I’ll live.”

Viserys frowned. “You know Maester Byren doesn’t want you putting more stress on it than necessary.” He tilted his head. “Have you been doing the stretches he prescribed?”

Lord Velaryon snorted, shaking his head. “Of course I have. You fret more than mine own lady.” 

He ignored the jibe. “Where’s your medicine?” He went to the cabinet and pulled out the milk of the poppy, deposited a drop into a goblet of water, and handed it to Lord Velaryon. “Drink. If the pain’s as bad as the grimace on your face says, you’ll need it.” 

Raising a dryly amused eyebrow, Lord Velaryon accepted the cup and downed it in one go, then continued to button up his robes. “Satisfied?” 

“Quite.” Viserys steeled himself, then finally decided to broach the topic. “I need to discuss something with you.” 

“I know.” Viserys blinked, but Lord Velaryon only chuckled. “I was there the day you were born, and I’ve raised you since you were eight, boy—I know what that look in your eye means. Go on then, what do you want?”

Taking a deep breath, Viserys spoke. “I—we, that is—Monford, Rhaenys, and I,” Lord Velaryon raised a silver eyebrow, no doubt silently chastising him for not calling his niece Deria, but remained silent, “We found eggs. Vhagar’s eggs, in a cave.” 

The older man smiled—shockingly. “Ah, yes. My father showed me those when I was young—Monford found them himself when he was eight. Beautiful, aren’t they?” 

Viserys blinked. “Yes—yes, they are. It’s…not their beauty that interests me, though.”

This time, Lord Velaryon’s face went slightly wary, but the smile stayed in place. “Oh?” 

“They’re—they’re warm,” His voice sounded extremely confident to his own ears, much to his satisfaction. “Deria feels it, as does Monford, as do I.” 

“And what do I care if they’re warm or not? Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter. They are naught but stone.” The Lord of Driftmark’s voice had gone so cold that Viserys almost shuddered.

“They’re not. We’ve tried, and while we may have failed at hatching them these past moons, I know—“

Lord Velaryon’s face drained of color at his words, and to Viserys’s surprise, he began to shake—there was fury there, no doubt, Viserys had braced himself for it, but there was also something he hadn’t expected. Something he’d never seen on the Lord who was normally the essence of calm and collected. 

Fear. 

“You tried to hatch dragon eggs in my castle?” His voice was dangerously low, every word practically being hissed out. “Have you gone mad?! Do you forget that that was what killed most of your family, you fool?!” 

“My lord—“

“No!” Lord Velaryon backed away, putting on his belt and buckling it quickly, the poppy’s milk clearly having taken its effect. “No, you have gone too far this time. You and my idiot son!” He strode to the door and threw it open, and Viserys had no choice but to follow along miserably as he marched over to the library, no doubt to tear Monford to pieces. 

Along the way, he tried in vain to persuade Lord Velaryon to back down, to stop and talk over the matter civilly, but all he’d got for his trouble was a clout on the ear that managed to shut him up for the duration of the trudge. 

When they arrived, Monford and Rhaenys were, as expected, there, hunched over a dusty old tome. They both looked up at their entrance, Rhaenys’s eyebrow furrowing at Lord Velaryon’s furious expression, but Monford closed his eyes as if in pain, likely knowing exactly why he was in the state.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Father—“ 

“No, no, Monford. Do not ‘Father’ me—your _brother,”_ The mocking edge Lord Velaryon put on the word surprisingly hurt, “explained everything to me. So I will only ask one question—what kind of madness possessed you to try and hatch dragon eggs in my castle?!” 

“My lord,” Rhaenys interrupted whatever response was to come out of her husband’s mouth, rather shockingly. Up to this point, she’d been happy to completely avoid Lucerys. “It was not him, but I. I convinced Monford to take the eggs from the cave, and to bring them here. He is not to blame.” 

Monford turned to her with a pleading look, clearly not wanting her to take his father’s wrath for him, but she shook her head stubbornly. 

Lucerys, however, only sneered. “Oh no, girl—make no mistake, my son is very much to blame.” He turned his sneer to Monford. “You indulge your wife too much, boy.” 

Monford lowered his head in shame. “Father, I only meant to make her happy.” 

The Lord of Driftmark laughed, a harsh, cold sound that made Rhaenys flinch. “I care not for her happiness—it is not her duty to be happy. It is her duty to bear you heirs, and manage the household. Not indulge in some half-baked plans of sorcery!” He took a shuddering breath. “Do you have any notion as to what could’ve happened had your scheme gone awry? You would’ve condemned your mother, Daenaera, Jacaerys, Laena and myself, as well as all the servants within these walls to burn for your madness!” 

“The eggs are warm, my Lord!” Rhaenys said, injecting some iron into her tone. Viserys thought she looked more like Elia than she ever had at that moment; there was something in her stubborn gaze and the lift of her chin that he had seen in his good sister when faced with his father’s humiliations. “There is life in them yet—if we mean to put Viserys on the throne would dragons not be an extraordinary boon? Is it not worth trying?” 

Lucerys stared at her, eyes narrowed. “Your grandfather thought the same, girl—why don’t you ask that white knight of yours what dreams of dragons got him in the end?” 

Viserys felt a coil of white-hot anger stir in him at this, and Rhaenys’s mortified gasp almost made him speak up, but before he could come to his niece’s defense, as if anticipating it, Lord Velaryon turned to him and added: “I’ve heard enough lies from you, _bastard_.” 

He felt his tongue go dry at the harsh rebuke, and whatever words he meant to say turned to ashes in his mouth. It was not the word ‘bastard’ that struck him so, however, but ‘lies.’

Lord Velaryon thought him a liar. After all this time. Viserys had thought that perhaps…but no, no, of course not. It was nothing but folly on his part. _I am nothing but a pawn in his eyes_ , he thought, feeling as if he was seeing his situation with clear eyes for the first time, _pawns are not to be trusted or relied upon._

To his shame, he felt tears well up in his eyes, though he blinked them away as best he could. Judging from Monford’s pitiful gaze at him he hadn’t succeeded that well. 

“Here is what is going to happen,” Lord Velaryon cleared his throat. “By first light tomorrow, you will take those eggs out of my castle. You will go to the cave and place them where they should’ve remained all along, or better yet—you can ride to Spicetown and sell them so we might make some coin out of this farce. If you refuse, I will throw them into the sea myself.” He gave them all one more harsh glare. “And I will hear no more of dragons from this point on. The last thing your house needs is another Aerion Brightflame, and the last thing any of us need is another bloody Summerhall.” With a sweep of his robes, he was gone from the library, his furious footsteps growing fainter and fainter while the guilty party stood there, silent as the grave. 

No one dared to speak for a few moments, and all Viserys could hear was the sounds of Rhaenys’s fingers idly tapping on the table in front of her. 

“Vis,” She said, her voice doleful. “I didn’t mean—“ 

“No,” Viserys said, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. Not any of our faults—he doesn’t understand.” 

“But he—“ 

“—But nothing,” Viserys said, forcefully. Seeing Rhaenys’ raised eyebrows, he softened his voice. “I cannot let this go, Rhaenys. I know you can’t either. You feel those eggs, you as well Monford.” He added, looking towards the Velaryon heir. He may have had Lucerys’s face, but thank the gods Monford took after Lady Lysandra in his curious nature, elsewise he wouldn’t be anywhere near as amenable to the idea as he seemed. 

“What are we to do then, Viserys?” Monford asked, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I feel it the same as you three, but you heard Father loud and clear—and you know my father is not a man known for making idle threats.” 

“I know,” Viserys replied. “Which is why we are going to do as he says, and take the eggs out of the castle.” 

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, turning to Monford, whose confusion was similarly etched into his face. “You mean to return to the cave?” 

Viserys shook his head. “No.” He looked at them, imploringly. “Tell me, have you found anything that you believe might work?” 

They exchanged another look, this one far more hesitant. “We’ve been reading Haelora Targaryen’s diaries,” Monford said, voice unsure. 

Viserys’s brow furrowed. “Haelora?” 

Rhaenys nodded. “Valaena Velaryons’s mother—the grandmother of Aegon the Conqueror. She wed Vaeron Velaryon and became Lady of Driftmark. She was also a dragonrider—the last person to mount Telesrex, Daenys the Dreamer’s own dragon.” 

“And why is she important?” 

“Because it was she who hatched Vhagar—as a gift for her granddaughter, Visenya.” 

Viserys blinked. “She hatched Vhagar? As in, it was an active effort?” The thought was strange. Most Targaryen dragons seemed to hatch on their own when placed in the cradle of their rider, or when faced with the heat from the dragonmont. To hatch an egg purposefully was unheard of, aside from failed attempts like Summerhall or their own fruitless experiments these past few moons. 

“Yes,” Rhaenys flipped open the tome in front of her, flipping page after page until finally landing on the correct one. “Most of this is difficult to comprehend, regrettably this book did not escape Baelor the Blessed’s campaign against heresy and many pages have been torn out, the only reason any of it has been salvaged is because of the Lady of Driftmark at the time—Baela Targaryen’s—insistence. But there’s one page here that has caught my interest,” she turned the book to Viserys, and he gazed upon the page in question. He saw one oval shape, with what looked to be Valyrian runes written on it. 

“I fail to see what is significant about this?” 

Rhaenys shook her head. “That,” she said, pointing to the oval, “Is an egg—what else could it be? And those runes—I think they’re meant to help it hatch, some valyrian magic of some sort, no doubt.” 

Viserys crossed his arms, disbelief only growing. “You mean to tell me that all we had to do this whole time was write on the eggs? With ink?” 

“No. Tell me, what are our house words?” 

“Fire and Blood,” Viserys answered, voice proud. 

Rhaenys smiled. “Exactly. Think about it, Vis—the Valyrians were sorcerers. Dragons are magic—so, what is needed to hatch those eggs?” 

“Fire and blood,” Viserys repeated, the realization dawning on him. “But—we’ve tried the fire, and the blood too. For fuck’s sake we cut our hands open a week ago and smeared it onto the eggs before placing them in the hearth, what else do we need?” 

Monford stepped forward. “These eggs are old, Viserys. Vhagar’s egg was old too—it came straight from Valyria, rather than having been laid on Dragonstone. What seems most logical, is that the older an egg gets, the more it takes to hatch it. That’s what the runes are there for, at least that’s my interpretation.” 

He nodded back, cottoning on to the idea. “So, we write the runes on the eggs with our blood, then place them in the fire. Is that it?” 

“I think so,” Rhaenys said, looking to her husband. There was something tender in her gaze, which lifted Viserys’s mood slightly. He was glad she’d taken to Monford—Gods knew they both needed someone to confide in that wasn’t him. “But—you said you would take them out of the castle, so what were you planning?” 

“High Tide,” Viserys said. “It’s empty—all the work on it has stopped because of the storms we’ve been having lately. We have hearths there, to get a fire going—and a roof over our heads to ensure it stays lit. We could go to the cave, but with the way the tide has risen our mode of entrance will be blocked off at least partially, and it’ll be damp and drafty, not exactly a hospitable environment for a fire. Not to mention the storms could sink us before we even reach it.” 

Monford stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “That could work—if we set off riding at first light, we could make it by nightfall on the morrow. It would be much quicker normally, but the rain has made the terrain a bit rough, so we’ll need to pace ourselves.” 

“Won’t your father insist on some sort of honor guard to ensure we actually go to sell the eggs or place them back in the cave?” Rhaenys asked.

Monford grimaced, then nodded. “Aye, he most likely will. But do not trouble yourself over such matters. Let me handle my father, sweetling.”

Rhaenys gave her husband an unsure smile, but nodded nonetheless. “Alright.” 

With their plan of action set, Viserys left them, and returned to his remaining duties for the day. 

He thought of only one thing until the moment his eyes drifted shut and gave way to sleep. 

_“I’ve heard enough lies from you, bastard.”_

* * *

They rode out at first light, the promise of sunrise present in the dim light on the horizon, and the entire monotonous journey over to High Tide, Viserys’ initial shock and sadness at Lord Velaryon’s words gave way to righteous fury. It was moments like these that reminded him of what he was, what he truly was. He was no seahorse. 

This was a dragon’s rage. 

Viserys did not like getting angry—ofttimes it led to him indulging in exceedingly reckless acts, something that he knew he could ill afford in his present situation, but when the feeling came, he could not help it. In his darkest moments, he could see more of father in him than just looks. He may not have been mad like his father, but he was no pillar of honor like the image he’d presented to the Kingslayer. Lord Lucerys had warned him to be cautious in his approach of the man who killed his father, to get the measure of him and wear whatever mask he needed to gain his respect. Viserys had done both, and he’d done them well—although he had been sorely tempted to take the man’s offer of a knighthood. By now, he was a skilled mummer, playing at Aurane these past few years had made him so. Thoughts of war made him uneasy at times, true—dreams of Pyke and the slaughter he’d seen were never far from him—but he would _never_ even think to accept staying at Driftmark, living falsely. His name was _not_ Aurane, and his mother was _not_ a whore. He was a king—and he would accept no less than the iron throne. His care for the innocent was not feigned, but the lack of ambition he’d presented certainly was. 

Still, he’d masked the more reckless, ambitious side of him to the Kingslayer, played the perfect prince with stars in his eyes just like Lord Velaryon wanted. In fact, he’d done _every fucking thing_ Lord Velaryon had wanted—and how was he repaid? 

By being called a liar. 

Honestly, did Lord Velaryon still think him a child? He was a man—blooded and bedded! If Rhaegar had managed not to insult four kingdoms in rapid succession and his father had possessed some semblance of tact, he would have surely been wed by now, living in a holdfast of his own. Perhaps serving on the small council, even. 

But by the way Lord Velaryon spoke of him, you’d think he was some simpleton. He would _never_ have risked the lives of his kin over a lie—and barely related or not, the Velaryons _were_ his kin, for better or worse—nor the rest of the castle. He was not his great-grandfather, nor his father, nor Rhaegar. They had been careful in their attempts at hatching the eggs, never using anything too flammable like wildfire, and always having a bucket of water at the ready. He _knew_ not to make the same mistakes his forebears did, he _knew_ that having a dragon on your sigil did not make you one. 

Lord Velaryon had taught him so himself. 

_“Now,” Lord Velaryon says, sitting down across from him. “Since we have covered insulting House Lannister, not paying any mind to discontent among the vassals, Duskendale’s aftermath, and the first half of the Rebellion, I want you to tell me something.”_

_Viserys shifts in his chair, his hand reaching up to touch his still aching cheek—Lord Velaryon may be skinny but gods the man could slap—and frowning lightly. “What?” He doesn’t like these lessons with Lord Velaryon—all of them are boring, he’s boring, and he just wants to keep training the sword with Ser Willem._

_“What was your father’s greatest mistake? No, let me rephrase—what was your family’s greatest mistake?”_

_The question catches Viserys off guard. He knows his father to have been mad—any notions to the contrary have been promptly dashed by Lord Velaryon’s enraging ability to wax poetically on all of his follies so that he could drill them into Viserys—but what mistakes could his family have made?_

_“Madness?” Viserys answers, half-a-question in and of itself. It could be—quite a few Targaryens were prone to such illnesses of the mind._

_Lord Velaryon seemed to smile slightly, amused. “No, though that is part of it, I suppose. Your father’s and your family’s biggest fault, your grace, was hubris.”_

_“Hubris?” He does not know that word._

_“Over-confidence,” The man clarifies, gesturing vaguely with his gaunt, bony hands. “Entitlement, the supremely arrogant belief that everyone and everything is below you, so, ergo, you are not bound to any rules. You need not worry about lowly things like alliances or respecting your vassals or customs, you may simply do as you wish, and everyone will follow you, because who would dare to defy you?”_

_Viserys furrowed his brows, confused. How was that a bad thing? They were dragons, father had said so, as had mother. They did not care for the opinions of the sheep, they mattered not._

_“You’re wrong,” Viserys says, the words coming easy to him. “We’re dragons—so everyone has to obey. It’s the way of the world.”_

_Lord Velaryon shakes his head, his frown turning disappointed, and Viserys tries not to wonder on why that makes him feel hurt. “That_ was _the way of the world when dragons roamed the sky. The dragons are dead, however, and the second they died, your house needed to look to politics to survive. Instead, House Targaryen suffered from arrogant deed to arrogant deed. Aegon the Unworthy legitimizing his bastards, Daemon Blackfyre and his spawn terrorizing the realm for near a century, Aerys I refusing to consummate his own marriage, Aegon V allowing his children to break all of their betrothals with no repercussions, and finally your father and brother. By the time Rhaegar absconded with Lyanna Stark, your house was but one small misunderstanding away from collapsing. Do you see why? Hubris, Viserys.”_

_“But we made the kingdoms, we made the throne—it’s ours!” Viserys says, indignant at the idea that his blood doesn’t matter._

_Lord Velaryon raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Who says that—you? The throne could be said to rightfully belong to Robert Baratheon, he took it by right of conquest after Aerys broke the feudal contract, and he is recognized by the entire realm.” Viserys bristles at the Usurper’s name. “Others could say the throne should belong to my wife, through her own Targaryen mother, the daughter of King Maekar’s firstborn son. Some could even say the throne should belong to me.”_

_“You?” Viserys asks, nonplussed._

_“Yes, through my ancestor Lady Rhaenys Targaryen—you may also know her as ‘The Queen who Never Was.’ She was only ever passed over because her father died before Jaehaerys did—had Prince Aemon lived, she would have sat the throne, and I would be King today in all likelihood. House Velaryon would call the Red Keep home.” The older man shakes his head, as if clearing away an unwelcome image. "That is beside the point, however. The point is, that it matters not how much dragon’s blood you or I have in us. It does not make you special, nor entitled to anyone or anything. If you want something, you must take it, instead of expecting it to come to you.”_

_“I am of the blood of old Valyria—“_

_“—Aye,” He cuts him off, almost lazily. “As am I. Do you want to know what your noble ancestors were eight-thousand years ago, your grace?”_

_Viserys blinks at the change in topic, but nods warily. “What?”_

_“Shepherds.” Lord Velaryon answers, and Viserys’s jaw goes slack in shock. “Yes, that’s right. The noble, fierce Valyrians, started out as meek commoners who herded sheep to make a living. Do you know what my ancestors were a mere three thousand years ago, at the height of the freehold’s power, before they made their money with trade?” He does not wait for an answer this time, not that Viserys could conjure one up. “Fisherfolk. For all we know, the great house that rules Westeros in a thousand years will be descended from the woman who cleans out our chamberpots. That’s the thing about power, your grace. She is a fickle mistress, and dragon or no, she does not keep to one bed. There is no such thing as power in one’s blood—that is arrogance and superstition concocted by those of high birth to find an excuse as to why they should hold the power, nothing more. Power resides where men believe it resides, a good friend once told me. And if you want men to believe that power resides in you, you must not act as if the only thing needed for their allegiance is that your grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents rode dragons once upon a time.”_

Viserys had taken that lesson to heart—he’d needed to, or else he would only ever sit the throne in his dreams. He was no longer so foolish as to believe that men would rally to him simply because of his blood—nor that dragons could hatch under his command with no possibility for error. He knew not to take stupid risks, and this was not a stupid risk—those eggs were _alive_ , he could feel it in his bones. He knew it, better than he even knew anything else. Rhaenys did too. So why couldn’t Lord Velaryon see? 

Why didn’t he trust him? 

That had, rather surprisingly, been what had stung the most. Lord Velaryon’s cold, disappointed face. It was a sight he never liked seeing. The man was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, because his own had been a poor excuse for one—only ever popping in on occasion using him as some way to slight his elder brother, giving him at best an absent-minded pat on the head. To see his disapproval, his coldness—it made him feel small, unworthy. 

Unwanted. 

He shook off the thought as the still-gleaming silver spires of High Tide came into view, and elected to focus on the canter of Alyssa, his silver mare. He’d named her after Alyssa Targaryen, for she had the same different colored eyes as the daughter of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. She was also the mother of the first King Viserys, though he had been a fat fool who all but kickstarted the dance of the dragons—not the best namesake of his to emulate, mayhaps. 

As they got closer, it was all Viserys could do not to gape. High Tide had been in a sorry state the last he’d seen it six years ago, half the main keep had been gone, having broken off and fallen into the sea after a huge bolt of lightning had struck the already ruined castle fifty years ago. Scorch marks had also lined much of the windows of the white structure, and most of the beaten silver that had coated the roof and spires of the castle had either turned to rust over time or been stripped off by brigands over the years. The castle had gone from a seat fit for kings and queens to a ruin not even fit for the poorest hedge knight. 

Now, however—the main keep had been largely rebuilt, the silver roofs had been replaced, and the walls had been mostly rebuilt, with another layer of walls in the process of being constructed, as well as more drum towers added along them. While it was nowhere near close to its original splendor, its return to glory was no longer an empty promise the Velaryons told themselves to ease their wounded pride. Now it was a reality. 

They hitched their horses at the main gate, Rhaenys and himself following after Monford, who, having supervised the castle’s rebuilding over these past few moons, knew far more about it than either of them. He led them through a large portcullis, which led directly into the entrance hall of High Tide proper. 

Viserys, upon observing the interior of the castle, definitely felt the outside was in an infinitely better place than the inside. Though the integrity of the structure itself had been repaired, the inner walls were still covered in scorch marks the size of giants. Much of the white marble was obscured by them, and the parts that weren’t were plainly still in a sorry state, crumbling at the corners. Frescoes inspired by the freehold adorned the walls, scenes of myths from Valyria depicted on them—but with the scorch marks tinging most of them, their faded state, the paint chipping off the walls, all it did was serve as a painfully apt mirror of the freehold’s current state rather than an evocation of those halcyon days in which dragons roamed the skies. 

The castle itself was built largely in the same style as the Velaryon’s old villa in the city of Valyria. A dead garden stood at the end of the atrium, a long-since dried up pool at its center. White marble pillars, for all their degraded state, still stood proudly, reminding him of Ser Willem’s stalwartness and how it continued until his final day, when he coughed his last. 

“I think here is a good place to do it,” Said Monford, pulling the satchel containing all three of the eggs off his shoulder. “And I hope for all of our sakes this works because if it doesn’t, I have a feeling Father will be throwing _us_ into the ocean right after he’s finished with the eggs.”

Viserys nodded, knowing only too well his words rang true. _Well, mayhaps not me,_ he thought, savagely, _I’m too important when it comes to his ambitions to be thrown away so carelessly._

Rhaenys laid out the eggs on the center of the empty pool, while Monford scooped some mulch he’d gathered from Castle Driftmark’s gardens out of the satchel and placed it around them to serve as kindling. For good measure, he sprinkled some rum he’d poured into a wineskin over it all. 

“Alright,” Rhaenys said, steeling herself with a deep breath. “Give me your hands.” 

Viserys and Monford both acquiesced, and Viserys tried not to groan as the dagger cut across his palm and thick, red beads of blood trickled out of the fresh wound. 

After Rhaenys cut her own palm—surprisingly without so much as a wince—she nodded toward the both of them, and they all set about writing the runes on their eggs. Viserys had chosen to write on the black one with dark green swirls, Rhaenys the red with orange swirls, and Monford the white with gray swirls. He hoped to save that egg for Dany, though with how Monford had felt its warmth more intensely than any of the others, he had a sinking feeling that would be impossible. 

It didn’t matter. Whether this one was meant for Dany or not, there would be eggs aplenty to choose from in the future. 

All three of them finished, Rhaenys nodded to her husband, who took the fire striker from the place where it hung off his belt, and lit the kindling. 

For some time, nothing happened. The fire raged on, and the eggs remained as hard as ever. But after a few minutes, all three of them noticed a change. It began to grow hotter, the waves of heat caressing his face like a lover would, and for a moment he was so utterly lost in the sensation he almost failed to notice a slight rustling in the center. The runes they had written with their own blood lit up, turning from red to a white so blinding they all had to look away. The air grew more stifling, the heat going from welcome to unbearable. Viserys thought he could make out the sounds of Monford yelling at them all to leave, but he didn’t believe he could get up if he tried. All he could see in front of him was white, blinding him, deafening him with its ringing tones. He could see mother, in the distance, Rhaegar and Elia too—baby Aegon nestled in the arms of his mother. 

The last thing he heard before all manner of awareness left him was his mother calling his name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a Monford POV so we can see the aftermath of our three heroes' scheme. Hope you all enjoyed, and, as always, please leave a comment telling me what you thought! Those definitely help me write faster.


	15. Monford II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monford, Rhaenys, and Viserys deal with the aftermath of their draconic experiment, and Lucerys and Rhaemond both deal with some shocking revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quicker than I thought...but it's here! Enjoy ya'll!

Aelinor. 

Monford’s little sister, his first little sister, stood beside him, just as she was the last time he’d seen her hale. 

Silver curls, the same grayish Velaryon hue as his own, bounced as the merry girl of barely three namedays jumped up to greet him. Her soft lips collided with his cheek, in one of those big, clumsy kisses she would give everyone for a greeting. When she pulled back, a pair of eyes the color of a summer sea, a blue-green the same as his own, stared back at him, blinking. 

For a good while, he didn’t know what to say. He had not seen his sister in such a long time, had not thought of her—it was easier that way. It was easier not to remember Aelinor’s warm little body pressed against his side as he read her those tales of those brave knights she always loved, or tales of the Gods of the freehold that had been passed on to him from his father and his father before him. She’d always loved Nosphyrax’s tale the most—a bastard daughter of Atarxes, god of the tides. 

Nosphyrax had been cursed with sea dragons for hair by a jealous Tessarion—goddess of beauty, and her half-sister—who had felt cheated by the fact that her bastard sister had usurped her place as the most beautiful of Atarxes’ daughters. Because of this curse, each time a suitor looked Nosphyrax in the eyes—their color the same as a summer sea—they would turn to sand, to adorn the seafloor for all eternity. One day, however, a common fisherman happened upon her cave. Clueless, he looked her in the eyes, thinking her any other woman, until the sea dragons in her hair woke. But when they did…nothing happened. The man did not turn to sand, instead staying there, staring at the siren who was gaping openly at the man who had somehow survived their encounter. 

The reason he had survived, they realized, was because he had no fear. When all the suitors Nosphyrax had turned to sand came to her, they came warily because of dark rumors of her that her half-sister had spread, and warier still because of her hair. The dragons in her hair, however, fed on their fear, eating away at them until they broke apart like so many rocks into tiny grains of sand. The fisherman, being from a rural village on the outskirts of Valyria, had heard no such rumors. Instead, he stayed, and he took Nosphyrax to wife, and their son—with the fisherman's silver hair and Nosphyrax's sea-green eyes—who navigated the seas with an expertise and a knowledge instilled by his mother, was the first Velaryon. 

It was an old tale, passed down through millennia, much like the tale that came later of the pact House Velaryon had made with the Merling King in exchange for the Driftwood throne, where he wed a daughter of his for control of Driftmark and the Narrow Sea. Monford did not think it true, of course—though he would not tell that to any of his family members, a prideful lot they were—but for some reason the name echoed in his head, getting louder as he kept on staring into his silent sister’s eyes. The background slowly gave way to other surroundings of faded frescoes and marred marble, but the eyes remained the same, and when he blinked his sister was gone, and in her place, something else entirely. 

It was a hairless thing, was his first thought—definitely not his sister any longer, or any other human. It had scales of a pearlescent white, with horns and claws of silver. A lizard, perhaps? He’d thought so until it spread its wings and let out a tiny shriek—lizards did not have wings. When he looked it in the eyes, he saw the same eyes that he’d been looking upon moments before—somehow still as innocent and guileless. As the memories of the moments before he’d lost consciousness caught up with him, he felt the truth of the situation knock him back as if it were a well-placed blow to the chest. 

A dragon. 

There was a dragon staring at him right now. 

Looking around wildly for the others, he registered Viserys’s limp form at the end of the room, a black bundle poking at his face with its snout curiously; and Rhaenys, who had just begun awakening, had a red wyrm perched atop her chest, spreading its wings in a display of fierceness that seemed rather comical when one considered it was barely larger than a small pup. 

When he saw his wife’s eyes open and register the situation, something he _absolutely_ did not expect happened. 

She laughed. 

Quite hard. 

Like, _very_ hard. 

“Oh, seven fucking hells, it _worked!”_ Rhaenys crowed, propping herself up on her elbows. Monford felt his eyes widen at the language, she’d never so much as uttered a curse in his presence. When she caught sight of his expression, she flushed slightly in embarrassment, but that expression went almost as quickly as it came, for when she caught sight of the white dragon staring up at him from its position on his lap, she gasped. 

“Mother have mercy,” She breathed, her smile growing by the second. “You have a dragon.” 

Monford blinked at that, wanting to deny the fact but not quite being able to since the little wyrm on his lap seemed content to just stare up at him with his sister’s innocent eyes. 

He sputtered slightly, “I thought—Dany—“ 

Rhaenys shook her head. “I told you—this one wasn’t meant for her. I’ve _been_ telling you.” She had. “And now, look. You have _a dragon_.” 

“Velaryons aren’t meant to ride dragons,” Monford breathed. “All the ones who did met their ends…rather young. And in less than savory ways,” he finished, thinking of the Lady Laena Velaryon’s pale body, wrecked by the birthing bed, bleeding out on the white sands of High Tide’s beaches. And Laenor Velaryon, killed in a lover’s quarrel mere moons after his sister. He would include Rhaenyra’s three eldest sons, but they were no true Velaryons. Still, the thoughts nagged at him. 

Rhaenys shrugged, unperturbed. “We’ll be different than them, then.” Monford could not help but smile at how she referred to herself as one of them. He almost went to tell her that, but his eyes were drawn away by the sight of Viserys beginning to stir as well. 

“Vis?” Rhaenys asked, moving to stand and help her uncle, but the red wyrm perched in her lap hissed at the movement and so she elected to remain still, petting the beast’s head soothingly, to which it huffed, satisfied. 

“Hmmm,” was what she received in reply until his eyes opened rather blearily, then promptly grew to saucers when he saw the black beast on his side. 

“Seven fucking hells, it worked!” He shouted, moving to prop himself up onto his hands, then leaning his frame against the pillar behind him. 

Rhaenys smiled, oddly not as surprised as the both of them. “I said much the same. I _told_ you all they would hatch.” 

Viserys did not reply, instead looking at his dragon, flummoxed. The creature was the largest of the three, Monford could tell, about the size of a young hound. It was black all over, no trace of any other color present on its body—wings, claws, scales, all were the same striking shade of onyx. The only different color was in its eyes: a bright, malefic green that made him shudder. 

“Thaelys,” Viserys breathed, his lips curving up into a vicious grin, and his lilac eyes glittering in a manner far too similar to his dragon. 

Rhaenys blinked, then smirked. “The Valyrian God of vengeance and rancor. Rather appropriate.” She turned to him. “And yours, Monford?” 

He felt Viserys’s eyes snap to him, and when they saw the white dragon in his lap, a pained expression came across his face, but he shook it off with relative ease and gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m curious as to its name too.” 

Monford gave Viserys a look, attempting to communicate his regret, but the younger man shook his head. “It’s yours, Monford. I knew it was meant to be yours—We’ll find Dany another, don’t fret. What is its name?” He asked again. 

Monford sighed, looking into his own creature’s eyes, once again reminded of his sister and her favorite tale. Smiling, he gave the dragon a playful nip under the chin with his thumb, to which it squawked out something resembling a coo. “Nosphyrax,” he said, voice sure. 

Both Rhaenys and Viserys nodded, Viserys with more understanding in his eyes—he had yet to tell Rhaenys of Aelinor. He turned to his wife. “And you, Rhaenys?” Looking over her dragon, he laughed when he saw all of its colors in their full glory—red scales with copper horns and claws. The gods did love their japes. “I’d say Meleys would not be remiss—she bears the exact same colors the mount of Lady Rhaenys did. Meraxes would fit nicely as well.” 

Rhaenys shook her head. Monford thought she seemed changed somehow, fiercer, he'd say. Rhaena Targaryen was said to be shy until she hatched Dreamfyre, perhaps Rhaenys had experienced a similar change—he only hoped she didn't develop the same... _appetites_ Rhaena did afterward. “I’d rather not remind people of either of my namesakes—both of them died rather gruesomely, their mounts with them. No,” She stroked the fierce thing’s horns, and it repaid her with a hiss that seemed half-pleased and half-annoyed. “Manyxes,” she finally said. 

“Goddess of the sun,” Viserys said, nodding approvingly. It was a rather fitting tribute to Rhaenys’s Martell heritage, Monford thought.

Their revelry was cut short by the sounds of what sounded like many hoofbeats outside, and the mental fog the revelation of the dragons had put them all in seemed to vanish, like vapors tossed into the air. Monford quickly registered that it was morning—the hatching attempt seeming to have put them to sleep for the entire night—and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the white she-dragon clumsily strutting behind him. He made it to the terrace on his left, and saw…

Riders. 

A _lot_ of bloody riders. Fifty men, he'd wager. Father's honor guard.

And at their head, a familiar head of silver. 

“Oh, Seven save us,” He muttered. 

* * *

Having been able to successfully uncoil his newfound companion from his leg, Monford bade Viserys and Rhaenys to stay hidden in the atrium while he greeted his father at the main gatehouse to High Tide. If any one of those riders saw the dragons…not even the father himself would be able to save them. 

When he saw his father’s face, he knew if they hadn’t in fact hatched the dragons, his earlier assertion of him throwing them all into the sea was correct. 

“Father,” Monford bowed low.

He could hear his scoff. “My son,” he said, voice bursting at the seams with barely suppressed rage. “Care to explain what business you had at High Tide that was so urgent that you, your wife, and your bastard brother ran off on your horses yesterday at dawn like thieves in the night and had me round up my honor guard to scour the island for any sign of you?” 

Monford tensed. “I,” This was not easy to articulate, “I—we have something to show you, father.” 

“I doubt anything you could show me will change your circumstances, my boy.” _Oh, you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what was just a few doors in front of you._ “Rhaemond!” Father barked, and Monford’s head shot up in alarm as he took in his uncle’s bored face from atop his destrier. “Help me find my errant bastard and my good-daughter.” 

Panic surged within him. “Father—no!” 

A sharp smack to his cheek was all his protests gave him, and the shock from the blow was enough to render Monford immobile for a few moments. Father hadn’t struck him since he was nine and tried to take a newborn Laena sailing on his small sloop. 

The shock gave way to panic once he registered that Rhaemond and father were just one set of doors away from the atrium, and he lifted himself up off the floor, scrambling to reach them in time before they could open it. Regrettably, when the double doors creaked open, Rhaemond’s loud gasp and Father’s shoulders tensing to an impossible degree shattered any such illusions. 

As soon as he made it inside he shut the doors to ensure none of the other riders could witness what was inside. 

“What….the _fuck_ ,” Rhaemond breathed, gaping at the three serpentine creatures waddling along the floor.Father just stood there, unblinking, mouth slightly open, and Monford thought that he had never seen him so completely dumbfounded. 

“What the fuck?” Rhaemond stepped back, looking to his older brother in a manner he knew all too well from a lifetime of being the eldest sibling, like he wanted to pull on his sleeve for help. “What the fuck?” He began to hyperventilate slightly. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

Father finally seemed to snap back into action as he silenced his brother’s panic attack with a sharp look, to which Rhaemond glared back until shaking his head roughly and beginning to pace. 

“You hatched them,” Father said, voice completely monotone. “You actually hatched them.” 

Rhaenys stood up, Manyxes coiling around her leg suspiciously, as if to assess the two strange men who just entered the room. 

Rhaemond, abnormally astute, seemed to finally take notice of her, and he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Princess Rhaenys?” He asked, disbelief palpable in his voice. 

Everyone’s heads shot back to him, Rhaenys’s most confused out of all of them. “How do you know who I am?” 

“I didn’t,” Rhaemond answered, and Rhaenys grimaced. “Not until you said it—I don’t know I would have fully believed it until you said it, even with the sodding dragon. But…yes, it _is_ you,” He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Gods, I’m an _idiot!_ The eyes, the jaw, the dimples—it’s all bloody Rhaegar's!” He turned to father. “How the fuck did you think to keep this from me?!” 

Father shrugged, still stuck in that same dazed state. “You’d never met her before—so it was easier not to tell you until it was necessary you knew.” 

“And when would that be?” Rhaemond asked, crossing his arms. “When she bears down on King’s Landing with those three beasts of hers?” 

Father closed his eyes, as if in pain, then let out a tired breath. “It won’t be _her_ bearing down on King’s Landing.” He pointed to Viserys, standing in the corner with Thaelys on his shoulders, the dragon glaring at them all balefully. “But him.” 

Rhaemond blinked. “Aurane?” He scoffed. “What kind of business does my bastard nephew have in King’s Landing that he needs a dragon to settle it?” 

“I’m not a bastard,” Viserys snapped, then flushed promptly. “And I’m not your nephew,” his voice was softer, something akin to sorrow in his tone. 

“Wh—“ Rhaemond’s eyes widened in recognition, then he put a hand to his mouth. _“Prince Viserys?”_

Viserys nodded, uncharacteristically bashful. 

Rhaemond looked accusingly to his brother, and for once in his life father seemed somewhat apologetic. “I want _everything_ ,” he said, voice trembling with fury. “ _Now_."

So, Father told him everything. From the plan to crown Prince Aegon, the rebellion’s outcome changing said plans, Viserys and his sister coming to Driftmark—Rhaemond, Dany being his favorite niece, seemed to take that one harder than all the others—and then finally, Rhaenys’s marriage to him, and the betrothal between his yet unborn daughter and Viserys’s yet unborn son. 

“Of all the fucking things, Lucerys,” Rhaemond said, upon father finishing his mad tale. He laughed, though it was half-hysterical. “I knew you for a schemer, for an ambitious man, but this… _seven fucking hells_ , this is more than I could’ve ever imagined from even _you_.” Father had the grace to flinch. “How many lies have you got yourself wrapped up in, brother?” 

“Too many,” Father said, voice tired. “And it appears you’ll have to get wrapped up in them too, now.” He stared back at Rhaemond, eyes intense. “None of this can leave this palace, Rhaemond. If _one word_ were to get out—“

“—Do you take me for a fool?” Rhaemond replied, bristling. “No, wait,” He laughed, harshly. “I know you do. Very well then, whatever you may think of me, you know the usurper is no friend of mine, and that I would sooner let myself be flayed, gelded, and _crucified_ before I put my family in danger.”

Father continued to stare at him until he sighed and nodded. “I know, Rhaemond.” 

“Clearly not,” Rhaemond said, running his hand over his face. “Seeing as you saw fit to hide this from me for _ten years_.”

“Rhaemond—the fewer people knew about this, the better. That’s the first rule when it comes to conspiracies such as this one. Believe me when I tell you that had I been able to spare Monfordand Lysandra any knowledge of this, I would have.” Monford knew that only too well. Had he not been there for mother’s failed birth, or seen Prince Viserys at Maegor’s holdfast all the times he’d gone with him to court, he’s certain Father would’ve fooled him the way he had Laena, Rhaemond, and Jacaerys. “It’s dangerous enough that they know.” 

“There wouldn’t need to be any danger if you’d had them fostered in Essos instead of this madness, Lucerys!” Rhaemond barked back. 

“Do you know how simple it would’ve been for the usurper to find them had I done that?” Father’s lip curled, mockingly. “I am not on the small council anymore, Rhaemond—I do not know whether the usurper will finally decide to send his knives for them this day, the next, or the one after. I made a promise—I intend to keep it.” _Promise?_ Monford thought, confused. 

Father looked at the dragons once more. “Anyhow, I think we’ve spoken enough on this. How’s about we talk about the more pressing matter of the three dragons at their feet?!” 

Rhaemond’s eyes snapped back downward, looking as if he’d just remembered the fact that the dragons even existed. “Ah, yes…I suppose. Though we will be having words on this when we get back to Driftmark, Lucerys—best believe that.” 

“I have no doubt, brother.” Father bent down to see the dragons more clearly, evaluating each one. The Lord of Driftmark normally had a word for each and every occasion, but he seemed to become mute at the situation. “Any names yet?” He asked, as if searching for something to talk about. 

Monford nodded, stepping forward. “Viserys’ is Thaelys,” Father snorted at that. “Rhaenys’ is Manyxes,” That garnered a nod of approval from him, which made Rhaenys blink, then nod back warily. “…And mine is Nosphyrax.” 

A flash of pain came across father’s face—Aelinor’s memory still weighed heavy on him—but it was replaced by confusion. “ _Yours_?” He said, as if not certain he heard him correctly. 

“Yes,” Monford nodded to the timid white dragon peeking its head out from one of the pillars. “Mine.” 

Father let out a harsh breath. “My son has bonded with a dragon,” he said, blankly. “Somehow not the most shocking thing to contend with today.” He lifted himself up off his knees—Monford made to help but he stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Well,” he finally said, “On the one hand this makes things remarkably easier. On the other, it makes things remarkably more difficult.” 

Viserys furrowed his brow, then laughed. “Difficult? We have _dragons_ —nothing can stop us now!” 

“What did I tell you about hubris, boy?” Father said, his voice as sharp as a whip. Viserys looked stricken, then lowered his head in a mix of shame and frustration at the rebuke. “That it destroyed my family,” he recited, moodily.

Father nodded, tightly. “Precisely. Nevertheless, it makes things difficult because dragons grow. Rather quickly, but not quick enough in our case. Tell me,” he said, smiling falsely. “Do any of you know what we should tell the usurper when word gets to the capital that House Velaryon has hatched three dragons?” 

All of them paled at the prospect. “Exactly. So now, we have to find a way to hide three dragons—wild, unruly creatures that will eventually grow too big for us to be able to chastise into complete obedience—from _everyone,_ for _years_. Because believe me when I tell you, all it takes is _one drunken sailor_ seeing something not meant for him to see to cast us down.” 

“So,” Father said, stretching out his arm. “Any ideas?” 

None of them spoke, and Monford was beginning to despair over their situation. Seven hells, they really should have thought all this through before hatching three bloody dragons. Though in hindsight, none of them knew if it would even work, and the idea of hatching them seemed so utterly impossible that plans for what to do when their dreams became reality fell to the wayside like a coin from a spendthrift’s purse. 

“Do you remember the day of The Feast of our Father Above, Lucerys?” Rhaemond asked, his voice quiet and absent of its usual braggadocio or boisterousness. “When I was eight?” 

Father snorted, shaking his head. “Only too well. Mother was fretting herself a storm, and Father had all the knights on Driftmark looking for you.” 

“Why is that?” Rhaemond continued, still pensive. 

“Because you got yourself lost playing…” Father’s eyes widened in revelation, then he sighed and nodded. “In the caves.” 

Monford blinked, then gasped. The caves! Driftmark had some of the most expansive caves in the known world—before it was christened as The Isle of Driftmark when the Velaryons came to settle on it, sailors used to call it the ‘isle of cheese’ because of all the holes it possessed in the form of the caves. 

“Those caves could fit Lannisport and Oldtown in them both, and _still_ have room to spare. Vhagar, Seasmoke, _and_ Meleys used to roost in them.” Rhaemond said, echoing his own thoughts. “What are three baby dragons for them?” 

“It’s not a matter of just finding a place for them, Rhaemond,” Father said, stretching the fingers on his left hand in that way he did when he was frustrated over something. “It’s a matter of ensuring they do not leave said place. What stops them from flying out of those caves?”

“Seal them,” Rhaemond replied as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Some of them have multiple entrances and exits, I’ll grant you, but many only have one. Telesrex’s cave is named for a dragon that was near _twice the size of Balerion himself_ and still ate, slept, and flew within it. It has but one entrance—make some excuse, summon your builders, and have them seal it for the time being. Leave these three,” He pointed to them all, “A small entrance, so they can…do whatever it is Dragonriders do, but that’s it.” 

Father seemed to consider the matter, then finally closed his eyes and let out a sigh of resignation. “It would appear you’re right, as surprised as I am to admit such a thing.” 

Rhaemond scoffed. “You often say that I have my eyes closed when it comes to how much you do for this family, brother,” He leaned in. “I would say you have your ears closed when it comes to mine own intelligence. I may not be some Archmaester but I’m not a careless buffoon either.” Monford knew he was right about that. Aunt Shiera called it _‘Big brother syndrome’_ : a constant superiority complex that elder siblings have when it comes to their younger siblings, and said that Father had it _‘in spades’._

“Perhaps you’re right,” Father conceded, to which Rhaemond sputtered, and father gave him a dry look. “It would appear today is full of surprises for all of us.” He cast a keen glance at the rest of the room. “Very well, here is what will happen: I and Rhaemond will ride for the castle immediately and summon my builders. I will order them to find a way to seal Telesrex’s cave safely—enough so that you may enter and exit, but not enough that they will be able to fly out until we need them to. You three,” he gave them each pointed stares, “will stay here for the time being, hidden. I will have Rhaemond ride back here tomorrow,” Rhaemond groaned in annoyance, but father ignored it, “to bring you all food enough to last for a sennight, and will continue doing so until this is done with. If anyone asks why it is that you have all left so suddenly, you will all say that I ordered you to sail to Gulltown to discuss potential trade with Hull with some merchant or other. Construction on High Tide will halt until you all can finally put those beasts of yours in the cave.” 

“But, the men you brought with you, my lord?” Rhaenys asked, biting her lip nervously. 

Father regarded her cooly, but with a hint of newfound respect, from what Monford could see. “Do not fret, my lady—those men are my honor guard. While I cannot say I would choose to trust them with news of three dragons being born, I can say that they are the highest-paid and most experienced knights among my retinue, extremely loyal, know not to ask questions, and know what happens to those with loose tongues.” Monford suppressed a shiver remembering the fate of that scullion who got caught messaging Varys. “They will say nothing about this excursion.” The _‘if they value their heads_ ’ was strongly implied, but unspoken.

“Very well,” Father nodded. “If that is all, I will leave you now. I do not think I will find a wink of sleep until this matter is resolved, so best get it done quickly.” 

Looking down at the three creatures that they had miraculously brought back to earth somehow, singing songs that had not been sung for nearly two centuries, all Monford could do was agree with his father. 

_I will not be getting much sleep either._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, we have two more chapters until the end of this first arc. This will be our final chapter featuring any of our Driftmark ensemble--the next two chapters will be from two completely new POVs in two completely new regions.  
> Also, in case anyone was wondering why Rhaemond had such knowledge of Rhaegar's face, our boy served as Rhaegar's squire when he was younger along with Richard Lonmouth and Myles Mooton, but elected to leave his service once he got knighted because he found him "a dreadful bore," and wanted to go sail around the world, much to his older brother's dismay lol.  
> Dragon names all come from other fics I've read, namely "A Queen's Conquest" by Widowmaker94 which is an INCREDIBLE Visenya SI—and I say that as someone who's generally not into SIs. Go read it!!


	16. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned informs Theon of his betrothal, while evaluating the matter of his bastard son's future.

“Do you hear me, Theon?” 

Ned’s ward still looked completely flabbergasted but nodded nonetheless. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, I just—did not expect to be betrothed so soon.” 

Ned nodded back. He too thought the boy a smidge young, but it was already over and done with. “Of course—nevertheless, the King has consented to the match, as has your own lord father. I only thought it appropriate to inform you of the news. Congratulations,” he added, as an afterthought. 

Theon nodded, then walked out of the solar, still baffled. Robb moved to follow him out but was stopped by a raised hand from Ned. 

“Sit,” He said, gesturing to the empty seat Theon had only just vacated. Robb did so, dutiful as ever. Ned was going to speak to him about some news of mischief he and Jon had got up to that Hullen had informed him of, but his son beat him to the first word. “Will I be betrothed soon, father?” Robb asked, biting his lip. 

Ned blinked, then shook his head. “There are no plans to betroth you to anyone soon—your mother wishes to have the matter discussed at a later date, and I concur.” 

Robb looked immensely relieved at that, shoulders slumping with a sigh. _“Thank the gods,”_ Ned thought he heard him say, and he allowed himself a small smile. 

“Still, betrothals are important, son. They forge closer ties between families, ties that oftentimes help us survive,” Ned stood up straighter in his chair, his lord’s face on. “Theon’s match, for instance, is nothing to be scoffed at. The Daynes are an old, honorable family, not to mention the Velaryons.” 

Robb tipped his head to the side, inquisitively. “The Velaryons?” 

“Lady Carina’s mother is a Velaryon. They too are an old, respectable family,” _and grow more powerful by the year,_ he thought, darkly.

House Velaryon’s ascendancy was a constant headache for both Robert and Jon if the letters from King’s Landing were anything to go by. Oh, the Velaryons had certainly been influential before the war—they’d been the most powerful house in the Crownlands aside from the Targaryens as well as one of the foremost Westerosi traders on the Narrow Sea—but that had been nothing compared to the last decade. Somehow, they’d gathered enough funds to bankroll a series of voyages throughout the far east, reforging trade ties with countries they had not interacted with since the time of Corlys Velaryon. Several minor Velaryon daughters from secondary branches that would have made paltry matches in Westeros had, through court politicking, made powerful ones abroad: One had married a powerful YiTish nobleman, another had wed a Braavosi magister, another a member of Qarth’s thirteen. That, along with Rhaemond and Monford Velaryon ingratiating themselves in foreign courts, had seen a new, nearly overwhelming flow of trade go westward, and the Velaryons had brought back treasure upon treasure after each return.

Now, they were allying themselves with the Greyjoys. Ned was not one for politics, he cared not if this lord pleased that lord as long as his family and the King he served were safe and secure. But Jon Arryn spoke of worry. Martell, Tyrell, Greyjoy, Velaryon—all were now tied together, if tangentially. 

And all were known for having reason to despise the current King. 

Should they rise up…Ned shook off the thought. They would not dare to threaten Robert’s rule. Martell, Tyrell, and Velaryon had fought against Robert once, and they had been soundly defeated. 

The Greyjoys, also, posed little threat as long as Ned had Theon in Winterfell—and after he ascended to the lordship, Theon would not betray them. Ned kept the boy at a distance—for if the day ever came when his father rose up and he needed to take his head, he would need to be able to do it—but he treated him well, and he loved Robb like a brother. There was little doubt he would either fight alongside them should it come to that, or stay neutral.

But if he didn't, they'd throw him back in the sea.

“Will Theon leave, then?” Robb asked, looking down at the floor, but Ned could see the quiver in the boy’s lips at the thought. He softened his face in response. 

“No, Theon will not leave. The Lady Carina is but nine, and even if she were older, it would not matter. Theon is here until the King says otherwise, Robb.” 

Robb brightened significantly at that then nodded his head vigorously. 

“Now,” Ned said, inserting steel into his voice. “What is this business I hear of you and Jon going on nighttime rides in the Wolfswood?” 

Robb’s face went as red as his hair, and Ned sighed once more.

Children.

* * *

“Come in, Jon.” 

The boy in question stepped into the solar, a decidedly sullen expression on his face. 

Ned steepled his fingers. “I trust you know why I’ve summoned you.” 

“Robb told me,” Jon said, fiddling with his sleeves in that way he’d always done when he was nervous. “We didn’t mean any harm, Lord Stark, we were just having a bit of fun.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. “That bit of fun could’ve very well cost you both your lives, Jon. You don’t know what things lurk in those woods at night.” Jon had the grace to look shamefaced at that. “I trust Robb has already told you of his punishment?” His son nodded. “You are to do the same. But that’s not the only reason why I summoned you.” 

Jon started, flummoxed. “My lord?” 

Ned steeled himself. “I believe it’s time we speak of your future, Jon. I’ve been thinking of places for you to foster.” 

Jon’s face went completely pale, and his lip quivered. “Y-you’re sending me away?” 

Ned held up his hands, placatingly. “No, Jon—I am not sending you away. Not yet, and even if you were old enough, I would not do so without having your full agreement. You shall always be welcome at Winterfell,” he finished, his voice gentle. 

Jon practically fell on his knees in relief. Cat may have never seen the boy as more than a threat, but Ned knew the boy he’d raised. He knew Jon was strong, honorable, and far too loyal to Robb to ever think of betraying him. Cat did not see that, however—and Ned could not blame her. He knew what raising Jon in these halls looked like to all the other lords, northern and southron, but he could not have done otherwise. 

The soft whispers of _Promise me, Ned,_ still haunted him at night.

“But,” Jon looked up, “If you’re not sending me away, what do you mean by my future, father?” 

“I know you wish to join the Night’s Watch,” Ned started, and Jon seemed to brighten at the mere mention of the order, “But I would advise you to consider all of your options beforehand.” 

The boy’s smile dropped from his face. “What other options?” He glared at the floor, moodily. “I’m a bastard.” 

“You are,” Ned nodded, “But bastards can rise high in the world. There’s much more for you out there than the Night’s Watch.” 

“Like what?”

“You could be a knight,” Ned said, remembering Jon Arryn’s suggestion for Jon. “There are many lords out there who would be willing to take you. When you’re old enough, in a few years, you could go south and squire.” 

Jon’s lips quirked up into a small, hopeful smile. “I could really be a knight? Like Aemon the Dragonknight, and Ser Arthur Dayne?” 

“Yes,” Ned replied, fingers clenching at the mention of Arthur Dayne. “Yes, just like them. Jon Arryn suggested as such, and King Robert got wind of it. He’s gotten his brother Stannis to agree for you to come squire for him at Dragonstone once you turn two-and-ten, should you wish.” 

The missive had come as a surprise, for Robert rarely wrote him, and when he did it was just more and more requests to come south and see him. Ned missed his friend, missed the boy from his youth more than he could put into words, but he could not agree to such a thing. 

Starks did not fare well south. 

Jon, however, was not a Stark. Ned did not know whether he would flourish in the south, but he could be able to do a damn sight better than he ever would staying in the North. With the experience he gained from his squiring, he could very well become Winterfell’s master-of-arms one day. Or, if he chose to stay down south, he could join Stannis’ knights on Dragonstone once he’s knighted, a position that would see him well-paid and able to live his own life, marry, have children. 

The Night’s Watch might have been the simplest solution for all involved, but Ned could not help but hope better for his own blood, bastard or not. 

He sent a silent prayer in thanks to the Old Gods that he looked every inch a Stark. 

“Dragonstone?” Jon asked, seeming to evaluate the option in his mind, then settling on happiness. “Yes, I think I would like that, father. I mean,” he flushed, “I do not want to leave Robb, or Sansa or Arya or Bran, but…I would like to be a knight very much. I will think on it,” he finally decided. 

Ned nodded, pleased. “Good, the wall will always be there, son, should you indeed choose to take that path. But this will give you more opportunities.” 

Jon nodded, then Ned dismissed the boy with another stern reminder to present himself at first light with Robb for his punishment. 

Sighing, he returned to his work, grateful that the matter of Jon’s future was more or less settled for the moment. Cat might not have had a say into whether Jon stayed here or didn’t, but he did not wish to keep arguing over the matter forever. If he went down south, at least for the time being, it would hopefully cool everyone’s tempers enough. 

Gods knew no longer worrying himself into knots over the matter of Jon would do him wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed our first peek into the Starks! Next chapter is the last one for this arc, then we'll fast forward about five years to the beginning of AGOT. Leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	17. Arthur I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne reflects on the choices that led him to his exile, whilst discussing the future with Oswell.

“Viserys—you need to put your sword up!” 

The silver-haired boy nodded seriously at the criticism, then got back into a fighting stance. Arthur lunged, delivering a blow that the boy effectively parried, then striking at him again in quick succession. Viserys, however, bided his time, allowing Arthur to tire himself out as much as possible. The younger man almost got him, lunging for his side where Arthur had left an opening, but the sword of the morning’s reflexes were honed enough that he managed to sidestep it, then delivered a blow to the boy’s leg that sent him sprawling across the floor. 

Arthur walked over to where Viserys lay, both hands still on Dawn and pointed it to his throat. 

“Yield,” Viserys said, miserably putting his hands up. 

Arthur nodded, sheathing Dawn and offering him a gauntleted hand to pull himself back up, which he took. 

“You did well,” He said, patting the younger man on the shoulder. “Your strategy wasn’t wrong, nor was your footwork, you just need to get those reflexes in order.” Viserys frowned, clearly still disappointed with himself but nodded. With a wave of his hand, Arthur dismissed him, and the boy walked off the training yard and back into the manse. 

Alone, he sighed, dropping onto a crenel, and looking out at the city below. Tyrosh was a strange place, he reflected, not for the first time. The last of the Kingsguard had been here for the past ten years, and still it continued to baffle them. The blue hair, the religion, the customs, the fashion. All of it was still foreign to him. He missed Starfall, the gleaming limestone walls, the way whenever the tide got high it would disconnect from the mainland and become an island of its own, watching the sunset from the palestone sword with Ashara, supping on peaches without a care in the world. 

All of that was gone, however. He would not see Starfall for a very long time, if ever. His duty compelled him to stay here, guarding a pretender. The former pillow boy had grown on the men of the kingsguard, they had taken a liking to their young charge, but they shouldn’t have been guarding him. He was not their king—the real Viserys was. 

The real Viserys was on Driftmark, however, under the auspicious care of Lucerys Velaryon. 

Arthur shook his head, tapping Dawn’s hilt idly. Rhaegar had never liked that man—he had constantly undermined the prince at court, always steadfastly by Aerys’s side no matter what. When the little Prince Jaehaerys had died, it had been Lord Velaryon’s own headsman who had seen to the wet nurse Aerys had falsely accused for murdering his infant son. It had been Lord Velaryon who suggested that Aerys summon the infamous Spider to court and offer him the post of master of whisperers. Every scheme that had seen Rhaegar’s power slip and his influence shrink had been Lord Velaryon’s. He had no doubt the man had thought of the chaos after Harrenhal as nothing short of a gift from the gods. 

But Lord Velaryon had not made Rhaegar do the things he did after Harrenhal, Arthur thought, a feeling of regret washing over him. Lady Lyanna—the memory of the girl still haunted him to this day. She had come along happily, eager to leave behind her boorish betrothed and to go on an adventure, not to mention she’d clearly been besotted with the prince. After her father and brother died, however…Gods, Arthur could still remember the mighty row she and Rhaegar had. She had wanted to leave then, to go back to explain everything to her brother. She had raged on and on, until finally, somehow, Rhaegar was able to convince her to remain—if not for him, then for the health of the child she bore. 

Arthur wondered, not for the first time, what he would have had to do had Rhaegar not convinced her to remain on her own terms. 

Things had seemed to be slowly getting better after that. Lady Lyanna had cooled, and though she plainly still mourned her loss, as her babe grew within her, she’d stopped crying all the time and began to look forward to its birth. So excited, were she and Rhaegar about their Visenya, the third head of Rhaegar’s dragon. 

Then Rhaegar left, finally forced to go back to deal with Robert Baratheon, who had become a much more serious threat than any had anticipated he would be. He died on the Trident, and Lady Lyanna raged once more, weeping bitterly and cursing the lot of them. She had not tried to flee, but it had become clear to him it was only because she had given up—completely and utterly. The fairytale the girl had concocted in her head of the handsome silver prince coming to save her from the awful stag lord had come crashing down, shattering like so much glass, only leaving behind the bitter truth of reality. 

More news came, dreadful, awful news that had seen Arthur beat his hands bloody against the wall, Oswell retreat into a brooding solitude, and Ser Gerold openly weep. Princess Elia and her children slain, a dynasty fallen. In his darkest moments afterward, Arthur had contemplated leaving the girl and her babe to their fates, to his shame, but he had promptly shaken any such notions off. Whatever their sins, Lyanna had been loved by Rhaegar, and he knew her child would have been loved just as fiercely if not more. Rhaegar’s son deserved better. Stark would come for his sister, he knew—but Lyanna believed that her brother would treat her and her child well, and the Kingsguard had readied themselves for death.

But then a rider in the night from Starfall came, changing everything. Ashara had written, telling them of Princess Rhaenys’ survival, of the brother they’d thought an honorless cur having spirited her away from the city. The Kingsguard had met, and after hours of tense arguing, had elected on a new course of action. Arthur and Oswell would depart from the Tower to Sunspear, to see to the safety of Rhaegar’s daughter—and later, his brother—and Ser Gerold would stay to guard Lady Lyanna. They had tried to convince the white bull to allow them to stay behind in his stead, but he was resolute in his decision. 

_‘I’m old, and I’m tired,’_ Ser Gerold had said, a melancholy smile on his face, _“I failed my King, my Queen, my princess, and I failed my princes. There is time for you both yet to salvage your honor—there is naught of it for me. If I am to die, it will be with a sword in hand, defending Rhaegar’s girls. Mayhaps then the Gods will smile on me.’_

So, they’d left him to deal with Stark, and ridden hard for Sunspear. Not a moon later, they’d received news of the Lady Lyanna’s and Ser Gerold’s deaths, and Lord Stark’s newborn bastard son. It had not been difficult for them to surmise the boy’s true parentage. 

He’d wondered if they’d made the right choice, leaving Gerold and Lyanna behind—but he knew none of the choices they’d made—following Rhaegar in his plans, leaving behind Princess Elia to the tender mercies of the King—had been right ones. Besides, it had been done, there was no use in wondering what might have been. Prince Oberyn certainly hadn’t given a damn as to whether they regretted it all or not, he’d called for their heads immediately upon arrival and only been restrained by his older brother. Prince Doran decided to wait on deciding their fates until Prince Oberyn, who had left for Dragonstone a sennight after their arrival, returned from meeting with Lucerys Velaryon. When he had, the malefic gleam in his eyes told them everything they needed to know about what had been decided.

The news of his and Oswell’s new positions was both completely insulting yet not surprising. Oberyn had told them that the King—meaning Lord Velaryon—had decided on their duties, and instructed them that they were to present themselves at the Archon’s manse and remain there, guarding a newly freed boy from the pillow houses of Lys, until it was time for Viserys to come out of hiding and take the Seven Kingdoms. 

And now, here they were—ten years later. Any resentment either he or Oswell might have had had long since melted away, leaving behind only melancholy and regret. So much that could have been done—if Rhaegar had been more open, if he’d courted the Starks, if he’d spoken to Elia beforehand, if he had left for King’s Landing before Brandon got there. But it was useless to think on such things, Arthur knew. 

“Brooding again, are we?” Oswell’s dry voice cut through the silence, and Arthur felt his lips twitch up into a smile. 

“You know me, old friend—there isn’t a man alive who can rival me when it comes to brooding.” 

“No,” Oswell agreed, something strange passing over his eyes. “No man alive.” He cleared his throat. “Did you read the missive?” 

Arthur nodded, gritting his teeth. “Aye,” he all but spat, “Rhaegar’s girl has wed that worm’s son.” 

The thought of Princess Rhaenys wedding such a man’s son, _bedding_ such a man’s son, made him angrier than words could describe. If Rhaegar could see his little girl now… 

“It was either that or Viserys wedding his daughter,” Oswell said, shrugging his shoulders. “And I think the Martells want Viserys for Arianne. They were promised a Queen in Elia, after all.” 

Memories of a soft face, shy laughs, and kind smiles invaded his mind. “Aye, they were. Do you think Lucerys Velaryon will truly be content with only Rhaenys for a gooddaughter?” 

Oswell pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “Mayhaps. Mayhaps not—it could be that they want Rhaenys’ daughter for Viserys’ son in the future. You know how Velaryon always wanted one of his own as Queen.” 

Arthur scoffed at that. “Only too well.” His first girl, Aelinor, could very well have been Rhaegar’s wife if she hadn’t died so young. Lucerys had been adamant in pursuing the match, and Aerys had begun thinking more seriously about it before Duskendale—and would have no doubt approved it afterward if that voyage he sent Lord Steffon to Essos for was any clue—but the poor girl had caught a fever and died. Rhaegar had been saddened by the death, and sympathetic to Lord Velaryon’s loss, but could not help but to be relieved he would not wed a girl fourteen years his junior, or be connected to Lucerys Velaryon in such a way. 

Oswell turned his head to look out at the city below them, his eyes on the horizon. “Either way, these are good tidings, brother. You know this means we will be needed soon.” 

Arthur's countenance turned solemn. “Aye, we will.” 

“Are you ready?” 

Oswell’s question caught him off guard, but he hardened his gaze and nodded curtly. “Always.” 

“Then let’s spar and see if your words translate to your steel,” His friend grinned, roguishly. “Come on then, Sword of the Morning,” he laughed, “Let’s dance.” 

Chuckling, Arthur bowed low, then unsheathed Dawn in one smooth motion.

**_ END OF ACT ONE _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand that's it for this arc! Next chapter will be taking place five years ahead, and we'll see how our heroes are impacted by the mysterious death of Jon Arryn. Until next time!


	18. HOUSE VELARYON, 130-294 AC

**Alyn Velaryon, b. 115 AC, d. 176 AC. Husband of Baela, Father to Laena, Daeryssa, Corla, Alysanne, and Monterys.**

**Baela Velaryon, neé Targaryen, b. 115 AC, d. 167 AC. Wife of Alyn, Mother to Laena, Daeryssa, Corla, Alysanne, and Monterys.**

**Laena Grafton, neé Velaryon, b. 134 AC, d. 200 AC. Wife of Androw, mother to Willam, Erryk, and Osric.**

**Daeryssa Stokeworth, neé Velaryon, b. 138 AC, d. 190 AC, Wife of Theon, mother to Thea, Arianne, and Aeron.**

**Corla Lannister (Lannisport Branch), neé Velaryon, b. 142 AC, d. 203 AC, wife to Tybolt, mother to Tywald, Tyrion, and Shirei.**

**Alysanne Cuy, neé Velaryon, b. 147 AC, d. 221 AC, wife to Leo, mother to Loras, Marq, Mariya, and Falena.**

**Monterys Velaryon, b. 155 AC, d. 225 AC, husband to Laena, father to Aethan, Lucerys, and Alyssa.**

**Laena Velaryon, neé Penrose, b. 185 AC, d. 260 AC, daughter of Elaena Targaryen and Ronnel Penrose, Wife of Monterys, mother to Aethan, Lucerys, and Alyssa.**

**Lucerys Velaryon, b. 205 AC, d. 248 AC, husband to Bethany, father to Vaemond, Monford, Daemon, and Corlys.**

**Bethany Velaryon, neé Rosby, b. 204 AC, d. 248 AC, wife to Lucerys, mother to Vaemond, Monford, Daemon, and Corlys.**

**Vaemond Velaryon, b. 225 AC, d. 248 AC.**

**Monford Velaryon, b. 228 AC, d. 248 AC.**

**Daemon Velaryon, b. 231 AC, d. 248 AC.**

**Corlys Velaryon, b. 236 AC, d. 248 AC.**

**Alyssa Arryn (Gulltown Branch), neé Velaryon, b. 208 AC, d. 283 AC, wife to Desmond, mother to Elys, Gawen, and Joanna.**

**Aethan Velaryon, b. 210 AC, d. 274 AC, husband of Marra, father of Lucerys, Shiera, and Rhaemond.**

**Marra Velaryon, neé Rogare, b. 233 AC, d. 278 AC, wife of Aethan, mother of Lucerys, Shiera, and Rhaemond.**

**Lucerys Velaryon, b. 250 AC, Husband of Lysandra, Father to Monford, Laena, and Jacaerys.**

**Lysandra Velaryon, neé Celtigar, b. 252 AC, daughter of Vaella Targaryen and Ardrian Celtigar, Wife of Lucerys, Mother to Monford, Laena, and Jacaerys.**

**Monford Velaryon, b. 270 AC, Husband of Rhaenys Targaryen.**

**Rhaenys Velaryon, neé Targaryen, b. 280 AC, wife of Monford, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.**

**Aelinor Velaryon, b. 274 AC, d. 277 AC.**

**Laena Velaryon, b. 279 AC, betrothed to Lord Willas Tyrell.**

**Jacaerys Velaryon, b. 288 AC.**

**Shiera Dayne, neé Velaryon, b. 259 AC, Wife of Aurelian, Mother to Carina and Edric.**

**Rhaemond Velaryon, b. 261 AC, betrothed to Desmera Redwyne.**

**Viserys Targaryen, b. 276 AC, Lord Lucerys Velaryon's ward.**

**Daenerys Targaryen, b. 284 AC, Lord Lucerys Velaryon's ward.**


	19. Rhaenys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys and Monford are summoned back to Castle Driftmark from High Tide, receiving tidings of wars soon to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone needs a visual aid, in my mind Valyrian architecture is basically just Greco-Roman Architecture, and High Tide in my head is just Diocletian's Palace but with roofs of silver and more marble: https://www.tourdesksplit.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Diocletians-Palace.jpg

**ACT TWO**

* * *

_"When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."_

_-Cersei Lannister to Eddard Stark_

* * *

_ High Tide, 298 AC _

A knock at the door awoke Rhaenys, and judging from the low groan and shifting beside her, her husband as well. 

“Gods,” said Monford, sleep audible in his voice, “What in the seven hells could it be at this hour?” 

Rhaenys sat up on their bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then sighed. “I have an inkling.” She got up, pulled on a robe over her chemise, and traipsed over to the door, opening it slowly only to find exactly what she expected to find. 

Her son stared up at her with wide violet eyes, silver hair tousled from sleep, his stuffed seahorse clutched tight to his chest. 

“What happened, my little knight?” Rhaenys said, kneeling so she was eye-to-eye with him. 

“Can’t sleep,” he said, softly, looking down on the floor. “Bad dream.” 

She tutted, brushing some of his silver locks away from his forehead. “Do you want to sleep with mama and papa tonight?” He nodded, and she stretched out her hand. “Come on then,” He followed her into the room, and Monford took in the sight with a tired smile. 

“Nightmare again?” Monford asked, peering down at their boy, and Rhaenys nodded wordlessly. “Should we take him to the maester? That’s the second time in a fortnight.” 

Rhaenys snorted, unruffled by her husband’s dramatics. “He’s fine—probably just leftover terror from when his grandfather visited last week.” Monford chuckled at that, shaking his head. 

Climbing into bed after him, Rhaenys took a minute to admire their son as he almost immediately dozed off. Monterys had just turned two last week, and still, Rhaenys was utterly besotted with him. She’d found out she was carrying him a few moons after her fifteenth nameday, and nine moons later—not without some panic from Monford and Ser Jaime—gave birth to him within the walls of the newly completed High Tide. The birth, thankfully, had been smooth, and the maester assured her she would deal with none of the issues her mother had faced in the birthing bed, much to her relief. Monterys came out healthy, a complete copy of his father in every way except for his eyes, which were Rhaenys’s haunting Targaryen violet. 

Lucerys had been over the moon, to say the least. He’d embraced her—actually _embraced_ her, after finding out she’d given House Velaryon a male heir on the first try. He constantly sang Monterys’s praises everywhere, telling everyone he could of his grandson’s quick mind and obedient temperament. He and Lysandra made it a point to ride from Castle Driftmark to High Tide at least once every moon’s turn for a few days, to see to their grandson. They would normally have their hands full with their other children, but Laena had been serving Lady Alerie at Highgarden for eight moons and Jacaerys was at Dragonstone serving as Stannis Baratheon’s page—both subtle excuses for getting to know their betrotheds. Dany was the only one of the children at the main keep now, remaining alone at Castle Driftmark, and Rhaenys could not help but feel sorry for her young aunt. At least she had Viserys with her, she reasoned. 

As she curled closer to her son, her husband smiling at her from the other side of the bed, Rhaenys thought with a contented sigh that she could get used to this. Just this, nothing else, for the rest of her life. 

As always, such an illusion was shattered the next morning. 

* * *

“Father has summoned us to Castle Driftmark,” Monford said later the next morning at breakfast, staring down at the opened missive in his hands. 

“What?” Rhaenys replied, around a mouthful of peach. Lucerys hadn’t ever seen fit to summon them from High Tide since they’d moved into the castle upon its completion two years past. “Why?” 

Monford shrugged. “He said he had some very important news to share with us, and that we should come to the castle urgently.” Rhaenys raised both eyebrows at that. “I know not what this means, Deria, but father has never used the word ‘urgently’ lightly. This worries me.” 

“And what are we to do with Margaery, in the meantime?” The honey-haired girl looked up from where she sat playing with Monterys on her lap, expression puzzled. 

“Do what with me?” Rhaenys chuckled. It was typical of Margaery to get so lost in playing with Monterys she’d block out their entire conversation. 

“He specifically wrote to bring her along—as well as the rest of our household. Clearly, he anticipates us to stay there for a good while.” Both Margaery and Rhaenys groaned at that, for the exact same reason. 

Oh, Castle Driftmark was beautiful in its own way, she supposed. She’d grown fond of it in her two years living there while waiting for High Tide to be completed, but it was so…dreary, and damp, and distant from all other civilization. The black Valyrian stone its keep was made out of, engraved with glyphs and scenes of the freehold might have been interesting and one-of-a-kind, oozing in historical significance, but it also made it dark and foreboding rather than welcoming. High Tide, on the other hand, was all white marble and open courtyards, built in the old Valyrian style, more a heavily fortified palace than a castle—though its two layers of walls certainly gave them more defenses than most castles—and she had grown to love it in a way she had never been able to love Castle Driftmark. Not to mention that Spicetown, already a thriving, lively port-town of forty-thousand, was within plain view of its walls. No doubt Margaery, used to the almost egregious opulence of Highgarden, had felt more than pleased to be sent to foster at High Tide rather than the main Velaryon keep. 

“If it’s urgent, I’m guessing we’ll be leaving within the sennight?” Monford nodded, then replied: “I’ll tell the staff to prepare everything. Rhaemond will no doubt be thrilled.” 

Rhaenys snorted at the understatement. Rhaemond would absolutely be thrilled. The man had built his own keep down in Spicetown proper, a decently large, opulent palace not dissimilar to High Tide, which he’d aptly christened ‘Low Tide.’ However, it was plain to see whenever he came to visit them how he coveted High Tide for his own, and one day it _would_ be his, as Monford had made it clear he intended to go back to Castle Driftmark and rule from there upon ascending to the lordship, rather than stay and rule from High Tide as Corlys Velaryon had. 

“Very well, do that, husband.” She turned to Margaery, who had promptly resumed bouncing Monterys on her lap, much to his delight. “Margie, if you’d be so kind as to take Monty for a short while? Lord Monford and I must needs speak.” 

Margaery got up, curtsying. “Of course, Lady Deria, Lord Monford,” She grabbed hold of Monterys’ hand, then ushered him out of the room. “Come, little knight,” Rhaenys heard her whisper, conspiratorially, “You and I are gonna get into some mischief together,” Monterys giggled loudly at that, and soon the doors were closed behind them. 

She turned to her husband. “What do you really think this means?” 

Monford shrugged, helplessly. “It could mean a whole host of things. Though, if it’s this urgent, I’d say it’s something quite big.” 

Rhaenys looked around to ensure no one else was in the peristyle. “War, big?” 

Monford looked pained at that, but nodded. “It could be,” he replied, gravely, to which she let out a frustrated sigh. She of course knew that war was a necessity as long as any of them lived, there was simply no other way, but she wished it were not so soon. 

“At least the dragons are big enough now.” Rhaenys grimaced at the reminder of their scaled, charred-meat eating problems. Aye, the beasts were big, but neither of them had any clue as to what to do with them. They could not ride them properly while they were relegated to that damned cave—and even if they could, most of the dragon-riding manuals on Dragonstone and Driftmark had been burned for being ‘sacrilege.’ Not for the first time, she wished she could punch Baelor the Blessed right in his pious throat—then promptly blushed at the thought and did the sign of the seven-pointed star for forgiveness. 

Ever since Manyxes had hatched she’d developed something of a ferocity. She was still quiet, and somewhat shy, but the completely timid, terrified girl who’d come to Driftmark from Sunspear five years prior was a stranger to her. 

“Thinking about punching Baelor in the throat again, are we?” Monford laughed, and she glared at him half-heartedly. He’d changed too, she thought. Nosphyrax was a gentle thing— despite the fact she was now the size of a very large warhorse with a twenty-foot wingspan and could swallow a sheep whole—but she’d filled Monford with some of her fire. Gone was the shy, stuttering man she married, now he was as suave and silver-tongued as his father when he wanted to be. 

“He would still deserve it,” Rhaenys fired back, weakly. “But, in response to your previous observation, they _are_ big. The only problem is we haven’t even ridden them yet. We need to know how to saddle them, how to use the whips—we won’t be able to use them in battle if we don’t even know how to take them for one ride around the island.” 

He nodded. “You speak truly, my lady. But why don’t we wait until we see what’s got father in such a state before we go around speaking of war?” 

Rhaenys sighed, running a hand over her face, before nodding. “You’re right—I suppose I’m just…scared.” She looked up at her husband, imploringly. “Everything’s been perfect these past two years. You, me, Monty—I just…don’t want things to change. I know that’s silly—“ 

“—It’s not silly,” Monford took her hand in his, then tilted up her chin to face him with the other. “I’ve enjoyed these past few years as well—more than you know. And who knows? We may be worrying for naught.” 

Rhaenys smiled sadly, then drew herself up to give him a kiss. “I pray to the seven you’re right.” 

Something inside of her, however, knew that he wasn’t.

* * *

As the towering black spires of Castle Driftmark came into view, Rhaenys’ anxiety only continued peaking. She had not been back here in four moons, and the sight of its walls was not welcoming in the slightest. Black seahorses carved into twin watchtowers glared balefully at her, and guards in Velaryon livery stood at the secondary gatehouse, waiting to open the gates for them.

“Mind telling me why you look as if you’re being dragged off to marry Walder Frey?” Jaime asked from beside her on his horse, smirking all the while. 

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “The only way I would ever be dragged off to marry that decrepit old lecher is in an urn.” 

Jaime snorted at that, then leaned in to her, a serious look on his face. “You know you’re safe as long as you’re with me, don’t you? I will kill any who dare endanger you or your son. Man, woman, or babe, it matters not.” She felt a shiver run down her spine at those words, feeling both silently grateful and perturbed, because she knew he spoke the truth.

“Of course, Ser,” Rhaenys nodded at him, then, risking a glance at her son riding with Monford on his courser, giggling and carefree, replied: “Be on your guard, my knight. I have a feeling you’ll have to start using that sword of yours soon. I trust you still know how?”

Jaime smiled, a savage, wolfish grin, showing off those still-perfect white teeth. “Oh, yes, princess—that I do.” 

She nodded once more, then focused her gaze on Margaery on her far left, riding at a brisk canter on her own gelding. Rhaenys had almost elected to take a wheelhouse and travel to Castle Driftmark along with the rest of their household just for the Tyrell girl’s sake, but Margaery had insisted she was just fine riding—her brother’s love of horses having rubbed off on her. Rhaenys was rather thankful for it, as if they’d gone in a wheelhouse it would’ve taken three days to ride from High Tide to Castle Driftmark rather than one, both being on opposite sides of the isle. She was too anxious for whatever this ‘urgent business’ was to even think of wasting her time with a wheelhouse. 

At their arrival at the gatehouse, the portcullis was opened for them almost immediately, and they were greeted upon arrival in the entrance courtyard by a familiar face. 

“Brother!” Monford called out, helping their son off his horse before dismounting himself. He walked towards a smiling Viserys with his arms stretched out and pulled him into an embrace. 

“Monford,” Viserys said, beaming even further when his nephew—great-nephew, in reality—clambered over to him and wrapped his arms around his leg. “I see my nephew has grown,” he chuckled, “Tell me, Monterys—you still like candied ginger, don’t you?” Monterys nodded, excitedly. “Well it’s a good thing I had the cooks prepare some,” he pulled out a bag and placed it into Monty’s hand, and her babe squealed in delight before running back to her to show her the bag, as if it were a grand honor he’d just been bestowed with. 

“See, mother?” Monterys waved about the bag. “My favorite!” 

Rhaenys smiled, indulgently. “I see, my little knight. Why don’t you go show Margaery your gift while your father and I speak with Uncle Aurane?” The boy nodded, then promptly dashed off to where Margaery was just dismounting. 

“Lady Margaery, Lady Deria” Viserys greeted them, “Welcome to Driftmark. Lylla here,” he pointed to a silver-haired servant girl, her smile nervous and her kirtle stained with flour, “will show you to your rooms should you wish to rest. Before that, however, Lord Lucerys wishes to speak with Lady Deria and yourself, Monford—urgent business, I’m afraid. Lady Margaery, Ser Owen,” the knight and the girl nodded, “If you would take young Monterys and follow Lylla to your rooms, we’ll have baths drawn for you all and tonight you’ll all sup with Lord Velaryon, as well as Lady Daenaera.” 

Jaime acquiesced after a nod of approval from Rhaenys, and, with Margaery taking an excitable Monterys by the hand, followed the servant girl to their rooms. She wondered why he’d left out Lady Lysandra, but elected to ask later.

Viserys, with a wordless nod toward the inside of the castle, bade them follow him, and so they did. No words were said along the way to Lord Velaryon’s solar, though Viserys gave her a cheeky wink that made her smile. Besides that, the atmosphere was tense, thick with nerves and anticipation. 

When they reached those familiar double doors, one knock from Viserys and a muffled ‘enter’ later, they stepped into the solar. Lord Velaryon was, as always, bent over his desk mumbling figures to himself, but looked up when they entered and smiled thinly. 

“Monford, my boy,” He said, getting up from his desk and pulling Monford into a short embrace. “Gooddaughter,” he said to her, nodding curtly. Lucerys had not changed much in his indifferent demeanor toward her, but after Manyxes and Monterys, he’d developed a grudging respect for her that ofttimes bordered on amiability. 

“Lord Lucerys,” She replied, sketching a curtsy. “We thank you for inviting us. Tis always a pleasure.” 

“I’m sure,” he said, dryly. He turned to Monford. “There are tidings—very good tidings we must discuss. Please, take a seat, both of you.” They moved to sit in front of his great oak desk, and he took his own seat behind it in short order, steepling his fingers. 

Then, he smirked. “Jon Arryn is dead.” 

Rhaenys gasped, putting a hand to her mouth, and she saw Monford’s jaw slacken slightly out of the corner of her eye. Viserys looked smug, clearly having known the news beforehand, whilst Lord Velaryon looked triumphant. 

The Hand of The King…the same hand who was all but holding the kingdoms together. She had no love for Robert, nor any Lannister save for her guardian, but Jon Arryn she had at least respected. He was the calming voice in Robert’s ear, Lord Velaryon and her uncles had said as much. If he was dead…

“How?” Monford asked before she could. 

Lord Velaryon shrugged, blasé. “Some fever, though it's also likely to be poison. Until we know for certain, it matters not. The point is he’s dead—and King Robert will be heading North soon to search for his replacement.” 

“North?” Rhaenys asked, finding her voice. “You think he means to name Stark his hand?” 

Lord Velaryon nodded. “There’s no one else up there he’d think of courting for the position. Ned Stark is Robert’s best friend, a paragon of honor, and a renowned warrior. And if he has any sense about him, he’ll accept. Even if he doesn’t, it matters not—what matters is that in the aftermath of Jon Arryn’s death, Stannis Baratheon fled to Dragonstone and has declined to return to his position on the small council. Instead, he stopped at Driftmark on his way back to Dragonstone, and spoke with me at length.” 

“About what?” Asked Monford. 

“He made some veiled insinuations about Jon Arryn’s death—and told me he intended to bide his time on Dragonstone whilst being absent from the small council. Naming me his most powerful lord, as well as a leal vassal, he told me he would recommend to Robert that I take up my old position as Master of Ships in his stead whilst he figures out where to go from here. This letter,” He held up another opened missive, “is King Robert’s assent to the proposal. I am meant to be Stannis’s eyes and ears in King’s Landing for the time being until he figures out what to do.” 

All were silent at the information. Rhaenys, confused, asked: “He trusts you enough to do that?”

This time his smirk was bitter. “My son is betrothed to his daughter, and is currently under his care at Dragonstone—he trusts that I will act in my best interests, which include my son’s marriage and his safety.” 

“Jacaerys is his hostage, you mean!” Monford groaned. “Father, if he has him then how are you to—“

The older man waved away his concerns. “It’s not as bad as all that. Stannis is placing more trust into the fact that they are betrothed than he is the fact that he’s at his mercy, though that is surely part of it. Worry not for your brother, Monford—he will be recalled to Driftmark shortly.” 

Her husband snorted. “And how do you plan to do that?” 

“Your mother has fallen deathly ill, the maester is unsure as to whether she’ll survive the moon.” Monford paled, his breaths coming out shaky, and Rhaenys felt immensely worried too. Lady Lysandra had appeared perfectly healthy when she visited High Tide not a fortnight prior—could the woman who’d been like a second mother to her really be dying? 

“Oh, worry not, son, your mother is in perfectly good health.” Monford sputtered incoherently at that, and Rhaenys’ face was dumbstruck. “She’s merely confined to her rooms with only Maester Byren—a Velaryon by birth, lest you forget—allowed to enter under the illusion that she’s sick. Took some time and more than a few hours of bickering to convince her of the scheme but she acquiesced eventually, albeit grudgingly. Lord Stannis cannot deny allowing Jacaerys to come back home under such drastic circumstances without openly admitting he is a hostage, which will make all those at King’s Landing who he intends for me to spy on realize his scheme far too early, completely derailing his plans.” 

“And you? How will you be able to go to King’s Landing while mother’s apparently deathly ill?”

“I am not to go to King’s Landing until the usurper comes back from the north, either with his chosen hand or not. By then, Lysandra will have battled through the worst of her 'illness', and be in recovery—just enough that Jacaerys can still have some excuse to stay on Driftmark, but also enough that I can leave for King’s Landing without it looking unseemly.” 

Monford leaned in, wary but intrigued. “What are you planning, father?” 

Lord Velaryon said nothing for a moment, then turned his eyes to Viserys. “I plan to crown my King, Monford.” 

Rhaenys exhaled harshly, shock taking over. “You mean…now? Is this it?” 

Lord Velaryon nodded. “This is the best opportunity we’ve had since the Greyjoy Rebellion.” She remembered that—Uncle Doran and Uncle Oberyn had debated whether or not to strike at King’s Landing while the Usurper was away since no Dornishman had gone to war against the Greyjoys. Ultimately they decided against it, since all of Robert’s armies would be in one place rather than divided by land—meaning they could take back everything just as easily as they’d stolen it. “If we continue waiting now, we will wait forever. This is our best chance to strike at the usurper—especially with this Jon Arryn business. Because if he was indeed poisoned as Stannis suggested, I need only find out why. And when that happens…war will break out. The kingdoms will be divided, and Viserys will step in, a young Targaryen king with dragons at his back, ready to bind up the wounds of bleeding Westeros.”

“And if he wasn’t?” Monford asked.

“Then I will find something else,” He replied, silkily, “It does not have to be a real conspiracy, Monford—You think everything I whispered into Aerys’ ear to poison him against Rhaegar was true? It wasn’t—some undoubtedly was, but most was rather exaggerated—at least before the rebellion. Truth is in the eye of the beholder. Some letters here, whispers there—that’s all it takes to get the banners called and the arrows flying. And with me back in court, it’ll be only too easy. Do not forget, I still have many eyes and ears in King’s Landing. Now it’s time to really put them to use.” 

Monford’s face grew thoughtful for a moment before his eyes widened in panic. “Laena,” he said, his voice hoarse, “She’s still at Highgarden.” 

“And Lady Margaery is still here, what of it? Besides, she’ll be coming back soon too—Lysandra’s ‘illness’ will force her. Even if Lysandra hadn’t ‘fallen ill’, Rhaemond and Desmera’s wedding is four moons from now—most like the Tyrells are already preparing for the journey.”

They all fell into silence once more. Rhaenys could hardly believe it—all these years of waiting, of planning, what started with her own marriage five years past, it was all coming to fruition. Vengeance for her family, for those who wronged her…it was but a few moons away in all likelihood. 

But…did she want vengeance anymore? Viserys did, she could see how he thirsted for it even now, and she did not begrudge him that but…Viserys did not have a son to think of. She could die. She could die during this war, or Monford, or them both, and Monterys would grow up just as alone as she had. He might even seek revenge on those who killed them. Did she want that for her son? Did she want the loneliness she knew came with being an orphan, the nightmares of screams and steel, the flinching every time a sword came out of its scabbard? Was any of this worth it? 

Looking at Viserys’s face she could see it. Years of waiting, years of playing at something he wasn’t, all of it had led up to this. Vis had built his life around vengeance, he’d even named his bloody dragon after the Valyrian embodiment of it. She had been young during the rebellion—her mother and brother’s deaths had hurt, they still hurt, but she could hardly remember either of them anymore. Viserys…viserys had been older. He had known his father, had known his brother—for all that he criticized their mistakes, they were still his family. She might be able to live without vengeance, but Viserys could not, not safely at least. Neither could Dany. Dany deserved to know who she was, and her son deserved to know who he was too. Her son deserved to know his lineage, deserved the chance to ride a dragon as she would soon, if the Gods saw fit to make it so. 

The only way to do that was through Fire and Blood. Her words. Her father’s words, her grandfather’s words. It was not just herself she had to think of, or her son, but her ancestors. They had built all of this—and it had been stolen. Cruelly. 

_ No one steals from the dragon.  _

Her grandfather had said those words, in his last days they were like a prayer for him. Would they be a prayer for her too? They should be. They needed to be. For all her upbringing, she was no Martell. She had never felt comfortable with her assumed identity, neither had Viserys. And whether she liked it or not, Deria Velaryon, daughter of Oberyn and wife of Monford, was also an assumed identity. She was Rhaenys Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. If she wanted her legacy, her family, and her interests to be secure—it would have to be war. 

She had learned what it meant to be Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken. Now it was time to learn what it meant to conquer with Fire and Blood. 

“And in the meantime, my lord?” Rhaenys said, finally finding her voice. “What would you have us all do?” 

Lucerys smiled at her, thinly. “I’m afraid you won’t be returning to High Tide for quite some time, dear Rhaenys. You and Monford will stay here, ruling as Lord and Lady of Driftmark in my stead until I return from King’s Landing—which will not be for a good while. Also, Telesrex’s cave is merely an hour’s ride from this castle, rather than the day-long ride you usually have to undertake when you visit it from High Tide. I would have you mount those beasts of yours, we’ll have need of them.” 

“But, my lord—people might see.” Isn’t that the whole reason he stuck them in that cave to begin with?

His smile grew, strangely enough. “By the time I return from King’s Landing, we will _want_ people to see. I do not mean for you to mount them now—but when you know I am to return, you will need to ride them if they’re to have any use in this war. Especially if you mean to use them in battle.” 

Rhaenys nodded, both satisfied with the explanation and filled with gut-churning fear over finally taking Manyxes to the skies so soon. 

“I think you forget something, Lord Velaryon.” 

Viserys’s voice was calm, but there was a tinge of impatience in it.

Lord Velaryon raised a silver eyebrow. “And what could that possibly be, your grace?” 

The title did nothing but make Viserys raise an eyebrow back. “Daenerys. You said you would tell her yourself when the time came—if she is to have the proper amount of time to adjust to the truth, you will need to tell her before you leave for King’s Landing.” A grimace crossed Lord Velaryon’s face, and he seemed oddly pained by the idea, but Viserys’s tone brooked no argument. “It’s time to end this farce, my lord.” 

It seemed like an eternity before Lord Velaryon nodded. “When Laena and Jacaerys arrive, we will tell them all together. No use in delaying the inevitable—and they all deserve to know.” Viserys seemed pleased by that. 

“Now—if there’s nothing else, you may all leave. We’ll talk more at supper.” 

They left the solar, and Rhaenys could not help but feel worried once more. Dany, Laena, Jacaerys…they had all been lied to for so long. 

Lies were like wounds, Oberyn once told her. 

And wounds fester. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand Act Two has begun! This one will be A LOT longer than act one, so strap in folks! Next POV is going to be from our favorite moody northern bastard--you heard that correctly, Jon Snow! We'll see how he's doing on Dragonstone--and we'll also get to see how Jacaerys has grown up these past five years (and Shireen and patchface and Davos and all the rest of the dragonstone crew). Leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	20. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow gets some long-awaited news from the Lord of Dragonstone.

“Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll save you!” 

“Oh, thank you, my knight—watch out for the dragon, good ser!” 

As Jacaerys lifted up the stick he was pretending was a sword, swinging wildly at the air as Shireen giggled and ran about the shore, Jon felt his lips quirk up into a smile. 

The two children— _betrothed couple_ , he thought, with a sour taste in his mouth at how ones so young could already have their lives carved out for them—had taken to each other like ducks to water in the past year that the Velaryon boy had been serving at Dragonstone as a page. They played together, ate together, did everything together really. The boisterous, energetic young Velaryon who had a smart retort for everything—a habit which Lady Selyse had despaired over _many times_ —had brought Lady Shireen out of her shell. 

Jon was glad for it. In the first moons that he’d been on Dragonstone, Shireen had become a true friend to him, almost like a little sister. She reminded him of Arya at times—though she wasn’t anywhere near as willful, she _did_ have a stubbornness that matched his sister’s at times. 

_A stubbornness certainly inherited from Stannis_ , Jon thought, amusedly. The Lord of Dragonstone was more ox than man at times, a steadfast bulwark in his decisions. He took counsel from everyone, however, no matter their rank, and Jon respected that. Lord Stannis didn’t care that he was a bastard, or who his mother was. All he asked for was competence in his service—Davos, a lowborn smuggler before he’d been lifted up to knighthood, was more than a testament to that. 

“Snow!” Jacaerys called, skipping over to him. Jon suppressed the flicker of annoyance that the reminder of his surname brought up. “You do not plan to save your lady from the invisible dragon?” He furrowed his brows, exaggeratedly. “What kind of knight are you?” 

Jon smirked. “I’m no knight yet, Velaryon.” 

“Well, in any case,” Jacaerys plopped down next to him. The younger boy was nearly four years Jon’s junior, but he was somehow of a height with him. “I think I’ll let the dragon chase her around for a while,” he nodded over to the spot of beach where Shireen was at his confused face, and upon catching sight of who’d joined her in her play, Jon understood. “Bloody fool terrifies me,” Jacaerys shuddered, theatrically, and Jon could not help but nod in agreement as he watched Patchface run about the beach with Shireen, the bells on his hat jingling with each step as he sang one of those strange songs of his. 

_“It’s always summer, under the sea! I know, I know! Oh, oh, oh!”_

“I still don’t quite understand how she tolerates him, she even likes him!” He shook his head, silver curls bobbing with each motion. Jon had never seen someone with such hair before going to Dragonstone and thought it looked…odd. Reading about the famed silver hair and violet eyes of the valyrians was one thing, but seeing it in person was an entirely different matter. One could say the features were beautiful, he supposed, but they were more strange than anything to him. Then again, he was of the north, and the variation in Northern looks was about as extensive as an outhouse. Dark hair, gray eyes, and long faces were the rule for hundreds of miles—only a few houses could claim otherwise. 

“When you spend your whole life alone, even a fool like that makes for good company,” Jon supplied, and Jacaerys shrugged in response. 

_“And the birds have scales, and the fish take wing! I know, I know! Oh, oh, oh!”_

“I suppose…still, I wish she wouldn’t spend so much time with him.”

He smirked, bumping his shoulder with the other boy’s. “Jealous, are we, my lord?” 

Jacaerys looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon whole. “Jealous?” He said incredulous, “Of _Patches_? Not in this life, Snow. I’m a Velaryon, he’s nothing but a volantene fool—with about the same wits as a headless chicken.” 

Jon rolled his eyes. He liked Jacaerys, not as much as Maric or Devan, but the young Velaryon had an energetic spirit and an abnormally sharp tongue for an eleven-year-old that ofttimes left him in stitches—as well as Lord Stannis with a headache. Still, the boy’s pride was about what you’d expect for a son of one of the richest lords in the Seven Kingdoms: abundant. 

_“Seahorses burn, in the bright green sea! I know, I know! Oh, oh, oh!”_

“Jon!” Davos’s voice cut through Patches’ odd song, “Jacaerys!” 

Jon turned to see Stannis’s closest advisor standing atop a sand dune a ways behind them, his face grim, and his stomach clenched. 

“Lord Stannis wishes to speak with you both. It’s urgent.” 

The two boys looked at each other, confused, then, shrugging, Jacaerys lifted himself up from the log they’d been sitting on and ran over, Jon following him on unsteady steps. 

Could it be father? Bran? Arya? Robb? Lord Stannis was not a man to use the word ‘urgent’ lightly, so Jon knew this was no small thing they were being summoned for. But if it was about his family, why did Jacaerys need to be present? All manner of anxieties plagued him, and it was only Velaryon’s excessive chatter that brought him out of his thoughts of doom. 

“Gods, what is it this time? Clean his armor? Pour his wine? I hope his wife isn’t there—I think if Lady Selyse glares at me one more time I’ll actually burst into flames.” 

Jon snorted, a smile tugging at his lips despite his worries. “She would not glare at you if you did not provoke her so.” 

Jacaerys scoffed. “My very existence provokes her, Snow. She mistrusts me, and mistrusts my family even more.” 

Jon furrowed his brow. “Your family? Why?” 

The younger boy shrugged. “We were Targaryen loyalists during the rebellion—one of the most ardent, actually. My father was on King Aerys’s small council.” 

“Weren’t Lady Selyse’s kin also loyalists?” 

Jacaerys shook his head. “They stayed neutral—the Tyrells were loyalists, but the Tyrell’s hold on the Reach is about as secure as a whore's chastity. It’s certainly stronger than it was two hundred years ago, but they’ve not fully consolidated their power yet.” 

Jon let out a startled laugh. “Your father’s words, I presume?” 

Jon had never met Lucerys Velaryon, but the man’s reputation preceded him. Some called him the Sea Snake come again, others merely called him snake. 

“Yes,” Jacaerys flushed at that, slight petulance to his voice, “But it’s true. Besides, my family are more…sympathetic than others. Father still calls Robert a usurper,” he added, in a hushed tone.

Jon had never heard the loyalist perspective of the rebellion before, it seemed rather unnecessary. It all seemed clear-cut from the way Maester Luwin told it, as well as the way the Northerners around him had always spoken of it. 

“What does your family think of the rebellion?” He found himself asking.

That seemed to startle the younger boy. “What?” He narrowed his eyes, though more in amusement than suspicion. “You’ve never asked me that before.” 

Jon shrugged, flippant. “It never seemed relevant.” 

Jacaerys took a few moments as they walked in silence to respond, before finally speaking, albeit in a hushed voice so Davos could not hear. “Rhaegar and your aunt grew infatuated with each other, and in a fit of youthful arrogance, ran away together. Aerys killed Brandon and Rickard Stark, ordered Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon’s heads, then they rose up. Robert was crowned, unlawfully, and took the crown that belonged to Rhaegar’s son. As if that wasn’t enough, he sanctioned the murders of the Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys, and Princess Elia.”

Jon’s eyes widened with each word. Rhaegar and Lyanna… _infatuated_? It seemed utterly ridiculous—Rhaegar had raped his aunt, at least according to all the northerners who’d seen the war. But father…Father had never said a word about rape, come to think of it. And from the way his aunt had been described, she did not seem the type to let herself be taken—or even attract the attention of the prince. She was like Arya, he’d said, and Arya would’ve sooner let herself be killed than captured in such a manner. 

He shook off those thoughts. Either way, it mattered not. Rhaegar had been married with two children, he had no business pursuing his aunt, whether she approved or not. The Rebellion would’ve still happened had everyone known that Lyanna had loved him, and he her. It had been Aerys’s unlawful killings of Lord Rickard and his son, as well as the declarations against his father and King Robert that had set things off, not whatever happened between Rhaegar and Lyanna. 

Before he could dwell on these thoughts, they arrived at the Chamber of the painted Table, greeted by a grim-faced Stannis who looked to be grinding his teeth together even more so than usual. Lady Selyse was beside him sewing, a frown on her face, her lips pressed together in perpetual disapproval. 

Jon bowed his head. “You wished to see us, my lord?” 

Stannis looked at him for a moment, then turned his eyes to Jacaerys. “You will leave Dragonstone tomorrow, at daybreak. Ready your things.” 

Jon blinked, shocked, then turned his eyes to Jacaerys, who appeared just as confused. “Leave?” He said, his voice disbelieving. “Why?” 

Stannis frowned at the response, then spoke: “Your mother has taken ill. Your father wishes for you to be summoned back to Driftmark until her condition improves.” 

The boy’s face went white as a sheet, and the fear in his eyes finally made him look his eleven years. “Ill?” He mouthed the word again, silently, as if not quite believing it. “Will she be alright?” 

Stannis ground his teeth even harder. “I do not know—nor does your family’s Maester. Which is why you have been summoned back. Pack your things.” 

Davos cleared his throat, looking at Lord Stannis with a bushy eyebrow raised up in disapproval. Stannis’s jaw clenched so hard he thought it a miracle his teeth didn’t shatter, but eventually, he sighed. “Do not take this as a dismissal. Once your mother’s condition improves, you will be expected to return to your duties here. Am I clear?” 

Jacaerys nodded, still clearly stupefied by the news. 

“You are dismissed. Send my well wishes to your family,” he said, almost an afterthought.

After a sloppy bow, the boy ran out of the solar, and Jon almost went after him but was stopped by Stannis’s voice. 

“Jon.” 

He turned to see Stannis’s face even more grim than normal. 

“Yes, Lord Stannis?” 

“You asked me for leave to visit Winterfell some time ago, do you remember?” 

Jon stood up straighter, hope growing in his chest. _Please, please, let him say yes._ “Yes, my lord.” 

Stannis stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded curtly. “You have it. Tomorrow you are to board a ship to White Harbor. From there, you will ride for Winterfell, and you will be allowed to stay until the King’s party leaves.” 

Jon frowned, confusion warring with giddiness at finally going home. “The King’s party, my lord?” 

Stannis grimaced. “Yes—my brother has made the decision to make a royal progress to Winterfell. He will leave at the moon’s end.” 

“Is it to do with Lord Arryn’s death, my lord?” 

Stannis blinked at that, and Jon thought he saw a gleam of approval in his eyes. “Yes, it is. I believe he will name your father his hand.” He did not hide the bitterness in that statement well if the way his knuckles went white were any indicator. 

Jon stilled. His father—hand? Father won’t say yes to that, he thought, almost laughing at the thought. Jon had only been to King’s Landing twice, both times with Lord Stannis, and the thought of his father in such a place, in such a position of power was absurd. Father did not belong in the south, he was of the north, through and through. Why would he abandon the North just for politics he didn’t care for? 

Aside from those thoughts, however, he was thrilled. He would see Robb again, and Arya, Bran, little Rickon, even Sansa! He missed his siblings more than he could say, missed the _North_ more than he could say. Jon enjoyed Dragonstone well enough, in spite of its dreariness, but the North…the North was indescribable. Wild, untamed landscapes, stretching out over miles. The North was alive, there was a soul in its land as well as its people. He did not feel that on Dragonstone. He hadn’t felt it since he’d left Winterfell. It would be good to go back, to remind himself of his home, his _true home_.

Lady Catelyn may have not thought of him as a Stark, if her cold stares were any indication, but it mattered not. At least, that’s what father said. The blood of the Kings of Winter ran through his veins just as much as they did Robb’s—Winterfell was his _home_. No one could take that from him, not even Catelyn Stark. 

“Well?” Stannis’ hard voice cut through his reverie, and he looked up to see the Lord of Dragonstone frowning at him. “Don’t you have some packing to do?” 

Jon nodded, fervently. “Of course, my lord. By your leave?” Stannis nodded, and Jon left the chamber of the painted table feeling both happy and conflicted. 

Father…On the one hand, if he did accept being Hand, he would be in King’s Landing. Dragonstone was but a sennight away by ship, he could visit him more often. And Lord Stannis was in the capitol half the time, meaning Jon was as well. If Father accepted, more often than not they’d see each other. Mayhaps he would bring Sansa and Arya with him as well—he knew how Lady Catelyn wanted them to be southron ladies, and Sansa was no doubt made for the court. 

_Mayhaps he’ll finally tell me of my mother_ , Jon thought, staring down at his boots as he walked. 

The topic of Jon’s mother had often hung heavy between them, ever since he was old enough to surmise that he didn’t have one. Every time he asked, however, he was rebuffed. Pressing Father on it did nothing, he would simply grow wroth and Jon did not have the luxury to make him so. He lived in Winterfell only because of Father’s insistence, if he had pressed too hard on the matter, no one would’ve batted an eye at him being sent away. 

_Gods know Lady Catelyn would have liked that,_ he thought savagely, but then he felt shame flood him. Lady Catelyn had never mistreated him, had barely uttered a word to him since he was old enough to speak. She was not warm, nor loving, but he’d settle for indifference and the occasional cold stare over some of the horror stories he’d heard. His time in the south had taught him that there were far, _far_ worse fates for bastards than having Catelyn Stark for a step-mother. Jacaerys’s own bastard brother worked as a servant— _in his own home_. Jon couldn’t imagine that. Having to watch as Robb was trained in swords and taught by the Maester while he had to muck out the stables and clean up all his family’s messes. But although his situation certainly wasn’t as bad as it could be, it was still far from optimal. Lady Selyse sneered at him every chance she got, and he wasn’t even tangentially related to her. His existence did not shame her, Stannis was not his father. But still, she loathed him. All because of his name. 

_My name will always define me._ Jon entered his chambers with a moody huff at the thought, then closed the doors and fell backward onto his bed. The lorathi velvet bedsheets did little to comfort him. 

How he longed to be a Stark. To be a _true_ Stark. _You have my blood,_ father would say. Aye, he did—but he didn’t have the name. The name was what people cared about, the name was what made the difference. Most, if not all the smallfolk on Dragonstone were descendants of their former Targaryen overlords. All the servants had silver hair or purple eyes, the blood of Old Valyria flowed through them just like it did the Targaryens. But did it matter? Did it matter that they were descended from dragonlords, or princes, or Kings? No. Because they didn’t have the name. Names mattered—and instead of Stark, all he had was Snow. 

He would never be a Stark, never be Lord of Winterfell. He wanted it, to be Lord of Winterfell, but that belonged to Robb by rights, and he would never betray his brother. _Yet I still want it._

_Mayhaps all that drivel Septa Mordane and her ilk preach about bastards being thieves is right._ He shook off the old feelings of resentment. Jon had no time for that, nor did it do him any good. Stannis had told him as much a long time ago, in his first few moons on Dragonstone. 

Jon smirked, _I never was the best listener._ Shaking his head, he got up from his bed and began packing. 

Tomorrow, he would be on his way to White Harbor. 

And from there… 

_Home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked our first glimpse at Jon! Our next chapter will be the very first Laena POV in this story - we're going to check in on how her and Willas are doing at Highgarden, and how she'll react to the news of her mother's 'illness'. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!


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